


Nyx

by daddykeehl



Series: The Makings Of A God [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Blood Magic, Butchering the German language, Caduceus is just happy to be here, Caleb Widogast Has Issues, Champion!Caleb, God!Mollymauk, Gratuitous amounts of throwaway OCs, M/M, Mama Nott, Mind Reading, Molly Takes No Shit: The Novel, Molly does an oopsie, Molly's tail used as a stress ball: the fic, One chapter at a time, Panic Attacks, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Revenge Plots, Slow Burn, Spin the wheel and whatever it lands on is Molly's class for a day, Suicidal Thoughts, Unfortunate spider cameo, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Void!Mollymauk, an ungodly amount of it, cosmic horror, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 93,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daddykeehl/pseuds/daddykeehl
Summary: When Caleb set out to eliminate everyone who had a hand in the murder of his family, he didn't know quite what he'd be getting into. Imprisonment, torture, execution, probably.Instead he gets danger at every corner, shady new friends, a one way ticket to his targets, and above all of that?Mollymauk Tealeaf, blood hunter, flamboyant tiefling, and primordial god.Not that Caleb is aware of that.





	1. Zange Mairi

**Author's Note:**

> "Don't you have a different fic to work on right now" yep. What can you do :')

(-Even Gods get lonely-)

Somewhere, deep in the Zemnian forest and off the worn, official path, a woman kneels before a towering shrine, sparkling with gems and jewelry and delights of all kinds. The misty area seems to pulse with power, the location of something bigger, larger than life, that reaches for her in the shadows, connecting with her soul and grasping tight, for it has always owned those of her blood and she is not exempt.

She offers herself to the old god her family has revered for generations, offers her blood, her life, her love, anything so long as her dear husbands fever is broken and the catch in his lungs that cut into him until he bled is stripped away.

And the god, so wreathed in beauty, selfish and terrible in his alien way, grants her that wish.

In exchange, the little life growing in her stomach will never truly be hers. It will be marked, stolen from her in a way she can never combat. When it dies, she will never see it in the beyond, for it will join the Darkness itself, and be lost to her.

It is a small price to pay, in that moment. What is one child to the love of her life?

Caleb Widogast is born not six months later, and it is with eyes full with tears that she begins to love him, even as the shadows in the corners of the room threaten to swallow them whole.

She can not have him, but she can cherish what time is left.

~°~

Even at the age of four, Caleb is a quiet, strange child.

His mother is suffocating, then distant, and never seems to be able to decide between either.

His father is cold, because he's aware of the blood contract and knows better than his wife to get attached to a boy who has not and never will be his son.

His aunties and uncles and cousins and his grandma and grandpa, they all are so different, they gleam in the sun and revel in the warmth and find him odd when he tucks himself away, so silent and still into the dark that warms his bones far better than any light may attempt. He is young and does not yet know just how odd they find him, childish ignorance that he will yearn for years later.

For now though, he will ignore the looks and the tutting and pointing and smile as the brush of foreign, static magic rushes over his hair, a familial, comforting affection from a being he has known since birth.

Life goes on.

~°~

There is a room at the very end of the hall that is locked tight and only able to unlock with three different keys.

Caleb knows this because every Horisal and every Duscar, the adults will go into that dark, dark room after the three oldest of the family unlock the door with their separate keys, one, then after awhile another, then another. He is always supposed to be in bed at such times, of course, but there are already too many rules for his six year old self to bother remembering when he has much more interesting subjects to think about, such as magic, and the mysteries of the seemingly rotting and strange door.

Always there is an adult to snap at him for snooping and crack his knuckles with a spoon or hand, and even when that makes the room go so very cold, they never remember not to do so. It is not an effective punishment anyway, he thinks, pattering down the stairs in the inky darkness he so fondly slinks through. It warms the cold floor he walks on and grasps lightly at his hand to guide him even when he does not need it. It is a comfort nonetheless, but why might he need comfort when he knows nothing that also lurks in the dark may ever find him if he does not wish it so?

The door at the end of the hall opens inaudibly where usually there is a creak, as if the lock is of no consequence, and not for the first time Caleb wonders what it is that he plays with in the dark forest so carelessly. Mayhaps he will get his answer tonight, and the thought of it is enough to push him to slide into the candlelit room.

The first thing he notices is the stained floor, where splatters of blood have sunk so easily into the wood and kept the strange runes carved into the walls fed for longer than he can grasp.

In the middle of the room is a circle painted in white with odd etchings, and in the circle sits a man.

He is, oddly enough, blue, with a tail that thump-thump-thumps behind him rhythmically. A rich black robe that shows more skin than it covers rests upon his body, with the hood covering most of his prominent facial features. Silver chains glitter strangely upon his arms in the light.

His smile (just barely visible) is sharpened with fangs, his eyes a ruby red, and Caleb does not gasp or scream or cry when he meets them. He thinks ‘safe’, and giggles when the creatures clawed fingers make the shadows tickle the back of his neck.

“Hallo.” Caleb greets, as is polite, and his reward is another fond grin.

“Hello, little one.” He says back, chains making a soft jangling noise when he inclines his head and skin taking on a reddish hue.

“What are you?”

“I believe your kind call this race a tiefling. Child of demons.” He answers, amusement tinting his smooth voice from his place on the floor, surrounded by evidence of gore and smiling like a cat that got the cream all the while. He looks like a man that knows things that others do not share, and it fascinates him relentlessly.

“This race?”

“I am not bound by a mortal vessel like yourself, Honigbär.”

The child, so brave despite his grim surroundings, gasps in delight at the familiar language, topaz blue eyes glittering almost as brightly as the gems upon his skin. This isn't how he's imagined their first meeting, but it's good all the same, he supposes.

The tiefling sighs as the human begins to whisper questions, quiet, mindful of the sleeping mortals above him who would be displeased with his disciple, his precious champion, should they awaken and find him. He cares for his followers far more than his stronger brothers and sisters do for their own, for his lot are small and weak in comparison. Perhaps a thing such as himself does not need to be deified, but what is a God without a believer?

Despite this, they all pale in comparison to the child before him, who carries his mark and is meant for more.

If Caleb ever asks it of him, he will burn them to ash, if only just to please him.

But for now, years before he will ever understand the weight of his Gods devotion, he babbles ceaseless questions and the ancient being basks in the little moment of peace before the storm.

He can not save Caleb from fate herself, but perhaps he can shelter him, for just a while longer.

~°~

He's eleven, and the dark woods surrounding their village has become his refuge now.

Where once it was easy to ignore his extended family, it is impossible to do so when aware of the growing malcontent among them that threatens to yank him right into the fold.

Aunt Mila avoids his eyes, Aunt Johanna openly shows her bitterness in the form of scolding for the most basic of reasons. The children his age do not play with him, and his grandpa has taken to just not acknowledging him. Father leaves the village to fight a war Caleb knows nothing about, and doesn't return. Mother stops leaving her room.

And still he does not notice. It's been years since he went into that forbidden room and met Tirich, but still it is a memory that sticks to his heart like honey and warms him even when the shadows aren't as attentive and Johanna takes advantage of it. He can't blame Tirich for not always protecting him, the being is undoubtedly busy, being a God and all. It hurts all the same, but he knows he's a spoilt child, so he shan't dwell.

There is always a new path for him to follow into the heart of the woods where the trees are so thick no light can pass through. It looks almost as if it were night, but there is no soft moonlight to guide his path. It is suffocating to others, but a comfort to himself. The only light he has ever taken to is the fire that he can sprout from his fingertips if he tries hard enough. Tirich says it's impressive to be able to accomplish even that, often, and he preens at the praise like a bird every time.

Today, there is no path, which is strange but not unwelcome. Tirich has never warned him against the forest, after all, has always assured him of its safety, of the sweet woodland animals and the rich streams of water from an unknown source. There isn’t anything for him to fear, is there? 

Today it is cold and silent, which it never should be for a forest that welcomes him as it's own child.

He forges on, anyway, into the clutches of the trees.

~°~

There are men in strange, clanking armour in a clearing he has not been to yet, with large swords and bows of all kinds. They speak in hushed whispers, eyes darting through the still wood as if something might charge through the brambles right then and there to gobble them up, but that's silly! Caleb has never once seen something scary like that, only Tirich and pretty animals that look to him for pets and crumbs of food.

If anything, it's more likely that the men are the monsters they so fear. It does much to quell his bravery, and yet…

This is Tirich's home. He controls such a place, surely, Caleb is young but not stupid! His magic is everywhere. And, well, Tirich would get strange men out of HIS home, wouldn't he? So he should be like Tirich!

With confidence rising in his fragile little ribcage and his wits lost to him, he strides as best he can out of the shadows that don't wisp along his skin and coughs politely to get their attention, faltering only when they draw their weapons, pulse speeding up just a bit.

He recognizes he's in danger, but it's surely just an impulsive, scared reaction to their paranoid fears, he's certain of it.

“I'm sorry, I d-didn't mean to scare you! But you shouldn't be in these woods, they're private.” He says, voice just a little wobbly in his anxiety.

Still, though, the men do not disarm, and the leader, with his mustache and angry brow only steps closer, all but towering over Caleb.

“Ay’! Boss! You ain't know what dat thing may be, ‘scuse me for sayin’ so outta turn! Could be a trick from those demons you ‘ear bout.” A bald man says to the right, and a few of his comrades nod.

“A witch? There's no witch in these woods, only birds and other such, and you, and me, now. But you shouldn't be here, it belongs to my family!” His voice is stronger now, laced with indignant confusion.

The men pause, and a few seem to catch an idea as they leer at the boy.

“Eh, I hear that right? You one a them Widogast brats? Well, what a turn of luck we got! One ‘o them witch whores stumblin’ right into our ‘ands!” The same man says, and now they laugh in cruel sorts of voices.

The leader steps forward, and fear shoots through Caleb so sharply his head rushes a bit. They aren't going to leave, he thinks. They are here for him, for his family, and he can't defend himself. They can do anything they please.

He steps back, and back, but the advancing man does not stop.

Caleb turns sharply and runs.

But Tirich is not here, hasn't been here for awhile, and the wood does not listen or help. He is caught by the wrist with ease, arm twisting strangely and sending a jolt of pain through it, the monster of a man's rough gloved hands holding so tight he fears he'll bruise in seconds.

“Damn shit! Get back here, me ‘n you are gonna ‘ave a grand ‘ol time at camp with the boys! You'll be comin’ with us to our Commander, ‘o course, he'll be mighty pleased, I should think. Might give us some free time, so don't you think we're letting you go!” He hisses, breath smelling of cheap ale and something almost rotten, dragging the kicking child behind him as easily as one might handle a doll. He shakes and hits and screams but it does no good, he can't even drudge up his fire he had previously been so very proud of.

Though fear runs through him he wisely stays quiet, recognizing the threat these men possess. He has never seen soldiers, has never heard of the horrors of the Empire as most might should they be raised to care. He knows little to nothing, but he is a clever child and knows now is not the time to fight.

He sits, he waits, and he cries silently as the soldiers laugh and laugh at their good luck.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

~°~

When he wakes, it's to a soft hand drifting through his hair, gentle as you please but urging him to sit up.

The fire has died to a low light and the darkness presses in unnaturally at all sides, the men having fitful dreams undoubtedly caused by Tirich. He can't see the being, can only feel the soft, phantom hands on him that speak of safety and the strange whispers of magic and something…else, right at the treeline.

The men had made some sort of protective circle around their camp, and it was strange that Tirich could not pass over. What could stop a God, he wondered?

Another God, his mind supplied, and a little bit of that fear came flooding back in.

‘Little one, Kleine Maus, you must get to me. Over the circle, come now, quickly.’ Spoke a whisper, curling against his ear with shuttered familiarity. He shivers, and rises from his spot upon the ground as quickly as he can without making noise.

He fails to take into account the small, miniscule silver strand in front of him, and a blaring alarm rockets into the dead silent air.

Immediately, the hushed, soothing whispers turn into screams, screams of panic, of fear, of a hatred Caleb cannot hope to understand, and it is with the groaning, struggling men beside him attempting to get up to grab him that he takes off, short legs carrying him to the strange swirling blackness that promises him reprieve.

The ache in his arm serves as a reminder more than a hindrance, keeping him on his path lest he be grabbed by the angry soldier behind him. He is terrified, and hurt, and he just wants to go home.

All at once, many things happen.

The soldier gets a hold of his shirt, his foot kicks up dirt from his sudden stop that covers one portion of the protection circle, the pulsing foreign magic goes silent, and Tirich, taking the shape of his preferred tiefling form, strides out of the vortex with the look of a feral animal that's protecting its young. He speaks, his tongue forked like a snake, language a guttural hiss that makes an ache rise in the back of Caleb's mind before being abruptly squashed by something foreign in his head.

The man behind him coughs, and coughs, and let's go, falling to his knees before the two in a cruel twist of irony. It is not reverence that makes him do so, but agony.

His very veins seem to glow for a moment, then turn an inky, terrifying sort of black as grey smoke fills his lungs through his open mouth. His eyes roll into the back of his head, blood rushes from his nose, and with a strangled, terrified plea to a God that can no longer hear him, he falls dead at the now withered grass before Caleb's feet.

There is terror, rushing through his head, panic attempting to force him to flee battling with that curling warmth that runs through his body, loosening muscles and soothing aches like a healer but strange and alien. Tirich, he thinks. It's Tirich, healing his bruises and keeping his instincts at bay lest he get himself hurt.

Something large roars in the woods, and sound rushes back into their silent bubble of comfort at the same time, but it does little to affect Caleb as the God before him runs a clawed hand through his hair and turns him away.

Around them, the wood wails, and comes to life.

Birds screeching in the trees, what sounds like hundreds of vultures, a few flying forth and pecking angrily at the man who rose to chase Caleb as well until entire chunks of skin are missing and his screaming is drowned out by the calls of the forest.

Snakes, strange and unnatural, as if made of black glass slither through the grass, biting at the ankles of the others, falling from the low hanging branches, one even makes its way into a prone mans mouth and suffocates him.

Caleb does not see most of this, however.

Tirich holds him to his chest, the scent of lavender and something unnatural doing it's best to calm the rabbit quick racing of his heart. He was hurt, he was taken, and Tirich had not been there.

“I know, Mein kleiner Held, I know. It won't happen again. Don't look.” He says, sagging forward to block Caleb's view of what's about to happen, what's already happened.

He does not see something rise from the ground, swirling and furious from something that happened to it in it's past life, whispered promises of eternal slumber at last echoing in it's decayed soul. It sees its targets, roars something terrifying in a language that hurts Caleb's ears, and descends upon the soldiers.

There is screaming, silence, a whispered word of gratitude as the creature fades away, and then nothing but the sounds of the earth roiling and shifting, burying the bodies of the fallen.

It's over before it could truly begin.

When Caleb attempts to speak, what feels like hours after the chaos, Tirich shushes him softly, brushing the dirt away from his tearstained face with an expression of guilt and confusion.

“I'm sorry.” He says, and Caleb doesn't answer. He isn't sure if he's supposed to.

For the first time since Caleb was a small child, Tirich carries him in his arms, a simple comfort that does little to take away the horror of the event, but he does his best, as all guardians must.

The path to the house is blessedly dark, and Tirich's somber voice rises above the trees and into the night sky, as he sings of a god cursed to walk the earth alone, his mortal lover dead and forgotten by the world.

The words taste like ash in his mouth.


	2. Jingo Jungle

(-Weak or strong, carry on, show no mercy to them all-)

He's thirteen, and he isn't allowed into the woods anymore.

Strange things happen there, now, hulking creatures brambling through it, blocking the soft moonlight and casting shadows across the rundown homes on the outer planes of the village, vultures circle overhead constantly, always seeking a prey they can not see. A little girl goes into the woods and doesn't come back for an entire month, and when they find her, stumbling out of the woods at noon, she's half feral but entirely unharmed. A traveler who looks at Caleb like he's food goes missing from the very bed he lay upon at night, and they find him in pieces a week later, strung up in the trees, a clutch of snake eggs in his open chest.

He's quieter now, and Tirich is suffocatingly overbearing. 

Aunt Johanna raises a hand against him once, and the house itself seems to rumble in fury, the very earth beneath them shaking. She doesn't do it again.

Caleb doesn't speak for a long while after Tirich brings him back home, just crawls into the darkness of his closet or curls up on the foot of his mother's bed. She has to be stronger, now, despite her grief, for her damaged boy. He's a little older, old enough to know that's what's wrong with her. She'd given her son up for her husband, but in the end she'd lost them both anyway.

Caleb doesn't know that part, and she isn't so cruel as to tell him.

‘He's a good boy’, she thinks, her frail hands clenched together in prayer, the coppery tang of blood sharp in the air.

‘Please, protect him where I have failed.’

He doesn't answer, but he rarely does, anymore. She has earned his ire with her failure, but she hopes this is a request he will take an interest in.

After all, he failed too.

~°~

He's fourteen, and his mother is healing. The house is a little brighter, now.

Hydrangeas feature as a centerpiece for the tables, the sweet scent filling the otherwise still and old house. The garden blooms with color, the kitchen is used far more often now, the dust bunnies swept up and the windows open to let in light.

It feels like home, for the first time in awhile.

Tirich is busy more often than not, something he's preparing for that Caleb can't know about just yet. His curious mind burns with the need for knowledge, but it gets no relief. You can't sneak past the shadows themselves, anyway.

The air tastes stale, in the corners of the rooms, because Tirich isn't around as much, and the place feels a little less full.

Caleb tries to keep from feeling abandoned, but it's a wasted effort. There doesn't exist a part of Caleb that isn't mixed with Tirich, anymore. He is emptier, now, just like the house.

“Liebling, gib mir den Topf.”His mother says over the clanking of wooden spoons and bowls in the basin of warm, soapy water. Her sleeves are rolled up past her elbows, wrinkled dress a mess of water despite her efforts to keep it dry, brow crinkled in annoyance when she notices. Her once unkempt hair now shines with sunlight through the strands, her eyes no longer shrouded from sleepless nights, a smile upon her painted lips. She looks just as young and happy as he imagines she would have on her wedding day.

He laughs, and hands her the pot he's barely been scrubbing in his inattention. Tirich always does need to be the center of attention, even when away.

Outside, the early morning sun shines down on the home, heating the cool floors, wind chimes hanging in the kitchen window tinkling with metallic laughter. It is calm, and peaceful, even as his mother shouts a playfully frustrated “Hör auf zu träumen!” and splashes the dirty water onto his trousers, making him squawk like an angry bird.

He retaliates, soaking the pale yellow shawl wrapped around her neck, and their laughter fills the spaces that Tirich has left behind, for just a moment.

~°~

He's sixteen, and the room at the back of the house is filled with candles, casting strange shadows throughout the room. His knees hurt from pressing against the stained wood of the floor, and his arms tremble even as conviction turns through his veins.

The night is so dark that not even the bright moon can pierce the clouds, the stars seeming to have simply disappeared. The villagers not associated with the infamous Widogast family hiss in apprehensive fear behind their barred doors, whispering about the foul taint of unnatural magic wafting from the family home. His aunts and uncles and everyone else waits in tense silence in the living room, children tucked safely in bed, far too young to know of the going ons of the house.

He is not alone, but it feels like it nonetheless.

The dagger carved from granite shakes in his hands, runes pulsing lowly with blood magic sending little shocks up his arms and making the silver chains on his wrists spark uncomfortably.

Outside of the circle he sits in, something prowls in the darkness that the candles can't disperse, beady red eyes hungry for the completion, but patient, always so patient. It has waited a thousand or so years, and it will wait a thousand more if it must.

Idly, underneath the curl of a loving thought pressed into his mind, he ruminates on what a shame it'll be to ruin the rich white fabric of his outfit, tailored for him for this ritual, for every ritual to come. The rich black silk they could never afford on their own is skin tight around his chest, leaving his arms and collar bare, soothed only by the gentle press of the shoulder-less shirt over it, black and white swirling together.

The collar of the undershirt that wraps around his throat is tight enough to move with him when he swallows.

It is a strange sort of comfort.

Behind him, there's a soft chuff of breath against his neck, raising the hair on his skin and stirring the low ponytail his mother had done up for him during the preparations. It's a prodding, but gentle reminder of what's happening, and with a shaky breath, he nods in regards to the silent question.

Carefully, he lifts the blade to his palm, and drags it across, a flinch drawing up as the skin breaks and the first drops of crimson drop onto his knees, then the dangling sleeves, and then finally the indented circle around him until it turns away from it's dove white to ruby red.

The candles flicker at the rush of magic that follows, and sickness swirls in his stomach at the disgusting aftertaste of blood magic, the sludge that churns in his lungs as he breathes through its aftereffects.

“Ich gebe dir zuerst mein Lebensblut.” He whispers into the stilted air, finally.

For a long, drawn out moment, he does not even breathe, but then, soft hands, a warm body, the soft jangle of chains clinking together, and arms wrap securely around his middle, clawed fingers smoothing down the skin around his collar, his metaphorical shackle. The irony of the hand firm around his throat without the general connotations behind it is not lost on him, even through the adrenaline shooting through his veins at the fear of the offer not being taken.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Tirich, skin a deep red, hair long and straight down his sides. The black robes with silver patterns swirling around the fabric seems to ripple as it moves like water, even as high hitched it is on his legs, and he feels the strange urge to reach out and touch it.

A bit of himself wants to lean into the embrace too, into the familiar heady scent of lavender and something new, honeysuckle maybe, but it's not time, not yet.

‘Soon.’ Tirich hisses, teeth clenched in excitement, and Caleb laughs despite himself. He has to wonder what Tirich is even responding to. His own wants, or Caleb's?

“Ich biete dir meine Reichtümer an, die im Vergleich zu dir blass sind.” Is his second offering, breath stuttering slightly as Tirich does this part for him, sliding the chains off his arms, slipping his rings off his fingers and unclasping the bracelets on his wrists. His skin is cold, but warms as if on command at every touch, soothing the anxiety rising in his throat.

Tirich says, “No need to worry so much, Liebling, you'll get wrinkles,” and Caleb laughs, louder than he's probably meant to. It's a private ritual for when his family members come of a certain age, but it seems Tirich won't give him the same treatment as all the others even now. It shouldn't make him as pleased as it does, but if Tirich feels it, he does not say.

He's memorized the three lines repeatedly now, as if he even requires more than one scan through it, but it does not fail to fluster him each time he performs it anyway, like it's all make believe.

“Ich gebe dir meine Liebe, mein Herz als mein letztes Opfer.”

The words hang in the air, but any would be fear that could possibly blindside him is shoved aside by the press of lips against his temple, ghosting tendrils of shadow brushing along his bare upper arms and rubbing lightly at his throat. Tirich accepts his offers, and the bond is complete.

Strangely, he does not feel different.

His skin still feels electrified, his pulse still beats too quickly to be comfortable, the draping arms of Tirich (and annoyance over his long, long sleeved robe) over his shoulders a comfort as always as the entity lounges against his favorite like he belongs there, but none of it is the mark of a shift in dynamic. The only thing new is the weight against his throat, like a hand just held there loosely. Tirich gives a little purr at that, and Caleb smiles softly in the darkness, exhaustion tugging at his brain from the abrupt pain, blood loss, and magical connection all in one.

With the supporting presence at his back, the knowledge of a house full of family on his mind, and the taste of the ashes from the candles heavy on his tongue, Caleb let's himself rest.

Tirich is in no hurry to move, anyway.

~°~

He's seventeen, and the village is nearly gone, now.

His door is blocked from the outside by fallen ceiling, and the flames just outside and below threaten to consume him just as it's taken so much already. His lungs burn with the smoke, and the very forest around them shrieks in fury and grief. He knows why, but he doesn't know who, exactly. Who has died, now. In a way, he wishes he counted among them. The horror settling in his gut isn't abating.

Somewhere outside the room he hears Aunt Johanna scream with rage, then a choked gurgle, then nothing at all. Dead.

He's shaking, heavily, his pajamas dirty with soot from his crawling on the floor, lungs struggling with the smoke. The terror is maddening to confront, and through it, the grief, the need to mourn the ones he has lost. Father, first, and now this. Where is mother? Where is Tirich? If the fire has spread to the woods…

“Caleb! Caleb, baby!” A voice yells through the door, heavy dragging noises rising up, an occasional groan of pain. Mother.

“M-Mama?! You're okay!”

“Yes, I'm fine dearest, I got out of my room on time, hush, hurry now, to me!” She hisses, and he's quick to obey, knees aching from the strain.

The room around him is in danger of crumbling, the wall to the washroom flickering more and more from the fire that eats away inch by inch at their beloved home. He doesn't stick around to see it happen.

The bedroom door flies open, and he's outside the room and in his mother's arms before she can open her mouth to speak, her tears stinging his skin, his own soaking the frazzled hair she had gathered into a bun before bed. There are burns on her hands that he knows will scar, but she doesn't even seem to notice, instead pushing him towards the somehow still intact stairs, dodgy though they might be. It's their only hope for survival.

By the front door is the body of one of his uncles, and bile rises in his throat even as his mother sobs and tugs him forward, through the kitchen, towards the side door that's yet to be blocked off by debris, their bare feet scraping against broken wood chips and singed by the hot floor.

Her hand in his runs uncomfortably hot from the burns, her nightgown snagging and ripping at the bottom, he's never seen her look so very afraid. He prays fearfully to Tirich, but there is no answer.

Their escape is halted as he is shoved through the door by a mother hell bent of protecting her son, the upper floors crashing around them both.

It takes only a second for their hands to disconnect, and for her to be trapped inside the home, a hulking figure in armour grabbing him by the arms and dragging him away, not to help her, not to help him.

Somewhere off to the side, a gleeful wizard with his hands alight drops to the ground, and his allies yell in alarm.

Caleb doesn't care.

He's a wild animal, kicking, screaming, too desperate to think to use his own magic, hand reaching for a woman he can see is doomed either way.

She smiles at him even as she is engulfed in the flames.

He stops struggling, but it doesn't matter. They're planning to kill him, he knows, the panicked soldier behind him attempting to unsheathe his sword through his own shaking. Something has frightened him terribly, and even through the screaming in his head he can feel Tirich, can briefly remember the familiarity of the situation. Perhaps this was inevitable, then. Perhaps getting involved that day is the very reason it's happening now. The thought sticks, for who else is there to blame? The soldiers, who only do what they have been bred to do? The villagers, unconnected to them and undoubtedly safe because of their fear? Tirich, for being simply unable to reach them in time through the suppression the Empire has undoubtedly laid down? He has no one else to blame, and he must lay it on someone. 

The ashes of his life taste bitter on his tongue, or maybe that taste is his own tears. The ringing in his ears dies down to a low, droning tone. The soldier behind him is gone. They're all gone, he realizes, killed during his stupor.

Only Tirich remains, the robes end changing from fabric to shadow, his feet no longer touching the ground, his face shuttered in hateful grief. Blood covers his arms up to his elbows. Despite this, he's still shockingly gorgeous, framed by the fire, illuminating his form. A true God worthy of worship.

“There are more coming. We...we must flee.” Tirich says, beckoning for him to come closer.

Caleb obeys.

There is nothing left for him here but the dead, now.

~°~

In the middle of the seemingly endless forest, there is a great big willow tree that is the only green thing around for miles, for it has sapped the life from the very ground. Nothing but hallowed trees surround it.

Caleb does not know how long it takes them to get there. He isn't aware of much, anymore. Only the slickness of Tirich's hand on his back, the tendrils that sink into his skin and clean his lungs of ash, that close the scratched skin of his feet. They do not talk, and he's grateful for that. The silence is broken by the barking of search hounds and shouts of soldiers searching for them, but they pay it no heed.

Caleb knows he's probably going to die soon. This is not a safe haven.

It is a last stand.

He's been here, only once, for his second yearly ritual. It had been...wonderful. This is where Tirich's true form is most closely at on their plane of existence, packed underneath the earth, in every tree and animal that makes its home there. He'd connected with that form, tentatively, both aware of the dangers of madness or death. It had been indescribable, ecstasy, nirvana calling to him.

Tirich was beautiful in the horror of his true self, and Caleb had only loved him more for it.

Now, the beating pulse in the stone and dirt is quiet and weak, the holy protection the soldiers carry forcing the entity away from his own territory. How ironic it is that the divine magic they use is the sort of thing they officially look down upon.

Caleb wonders if you can stop the nothing of the void, if you can end the space between the stars.

Can you kill something that isn't alive to begin with?

Softly, at his side, the physical manifestation of his beloved God laughs, warmth in his--her, right now--eyes. Her form is unstable so close to her host. She goes from her, to him, to her, to something in between, to orc, to human, to tiefling, to human, in a confusing display of wild power, unconstrained. Neither of them are in the right mindset to care.

Behind them, the torches of the soldiers glow bright, moving steadily closer and closer, but Tirich's power is sluggish, and she's unable to force them on a different route.

The ground beneath them rumbles with sadness at the realization.

“I'm sorry I failed you again.” Tirich says, rich black hair hiding whatever colour his human eyes are now.

Caleb does not blame him, and he doubts he ever will. It is always so easy to forgive the ones you love.

“You've grown so much, darling...I’m proud of you, my little hero. May we meet again, soon, then.” He whispers into Caleb's hair, fingers a soft pressure on the back of his neck.

Caleb can not name every God there may be out there, has never cared to learn more than a few names, perhaps out of disregard, perhaps out of a strange sense of loyalty, but the overwhelming wash of holy magic that blasts into them as the cleric steps in the clearing reminds him starkly of the great shining Dragon, in all his draconic glory.

Tirich flickers, and his heart hammers in his throat. He does not want the answer to his questions anymore.

“Please, please, d-don't go!” He cries, so unbecoming of him, but it hardly matters. He has lost everyone. He can not handle losing this.

Another blast, then another, then another.

The pulse beneath him goes silent, and Tirich seems to crumble away in his arms.

The scream that rips from his throat follows him even as an oily voice laughs at his misfortune, as they talk of payment, of an asylum. 

“He's broken, anyway, mi’ as well throw ‘em in there.” They say over his head, a gag between his teeth to stop him from screaming, or biting his own tongue off as a means for escape maybe.

Death is preferable.

But the Empire has never cared about a thing called mercy.

~°~

He's eighteen and he hasn't spoken in a year.

~°~

He's nineteen and the scent of lavender that wafts through his tiny barred window stops him from eating for nearly a week.

~°~

He's twenty and his mind shows him Tirich sitting on the ground next to him, then his mother, his father or his grandma. He knows that they are gone.

He talks to them anyway.

~°~

He's twenty one and-

~°~

He's twenty tw-

~°~

He doesn't remember how old he is.

~°~

He's asleep when they throw a shrieking bundle of cloth into the cell with him.

~°~

He's alive, still, when he meets a goblin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd have had this up earlier today but I accidentally passed out while writing it oops.
> 
> If you're wondering what Tirich's robe looks like just look up Nocturnal's outfit from Skyrim and that's it but with chains over the shoulders and down the arms, and more gold and silver swirls along it.
> 
> Credit to a @hugin on here for correcting my German, I'm not sure if it'll link you to them or whatever, this site is still confusing to me but thank you!!
> 
> Liebling, gib mir den Topf = Darling, give me the pot (though I was going for dearest in this case)
> 
> Hör auf zu träumen = Stop dreaming
> 
> Ich gebe dir zuerst mein Lebensblut = I will give you my life blood first
> 
> Ich biete dir meine Reichtümer an, die im Vergleich zu dir blass sind = I offer you my riches, which are pale compared to you
> 
> Ich gebe dir meine Liebe, mein Herz als mein letztes Opfer = I give you my love, my heart for my last offering / sacrifice


	3. Hit And Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Torture, graphic depictions of death, a description of a very sudden dissociation that doesn't last long but could be considered a panic attack, however the ones I've experienced were not like it and so I can't say for sure on everyone's behalf. Just be safe, lovelies.

(-History will hate us but they'll never forget our name-)

There is a sleepy little town on the edge of the border that does not ask invasive questions of the simple people who hunker down there for a time.

Caleb is not watched incessantly or spoken to and prodded at to spill his secrets or life story despite the heavy cloak shrouding his face, there is no bewitching barmaid to flash her cleavage at him in the hopes for a good story, a good time upstairs, an extra coin, or even all three. There are only three other patrons settled around a burning hearth, and they are too absorbed in their drink and each other to so much as look at the door.

There is a single innkeeper at the bar who pays them but a single, bored glance, and then no more as they step through the doors.

The goblin at his side unwinds just a little, and as she does, so does his anxiety.

Nott is a curious thing, as is his affection for her.

Growing up as he did, there was nary a race he had not seen through his patrons constant shifting, though perhaps he'd seen more tieflings than many did their entire lifetime.

Goblins, however, were not one of them.

His lord is, was, a bit of a shallow being. He coveted beauty and love above much else, and he found those qualities in the slimness of the elves, the butch, raw power in the orcs, the size of the halflings and the feline grace of the tieflings. Goblins were not made to love or to be pretty, and so such a form was never taken.

Caleb can see it in Nott all the same, despite her own opinion. Conventional beauty was not meant to be for her, perhaps, but there was still something pretty about her all the same, from her glittering jewelry to her mangy bandages and everything that hid underneath it.

She steps out from her spot pressed against his leg, her own cloak kicking up the dirt on the floor, and moves quickly to the innkeeper to rent a room for one single night, Caleb following like a puppy on a chain, bound to her as he had been to...Tirich, so long ago. It's a different bond, though, not so fanatical, not so complete. He does not deify her, but he loves her all the same. She is the strength he needs to get up in the morning, the support at his side to face every encounter head on. He was not a person in the decrepit pit of a cell, but she had built him up to be something close to one. He isn't there, not yet, but with her devotion to seeing “her boy” grow and flourish, he imagines it's only a matter of time.

Caleb was born into the spot at his God's side, willing as he was. He has no such obligation to Nott. He stays with her anyway.

He comes back to the conversation just as a key is handed over the bar and dropped into her hand, the girl already backing away lest her features get recognized. Fear of the hatred from others is strong in her, has been since birth, and he does all he can to hide her, for others, and for herself. Sometimes, though, it's as if she needs none of that at all, brave as a wild animal with the bravado of an orc of whom she isn't even half the size of. It is an admirable trait. He hopes he's around long enough to see it grow.

‘What a strange thing to want to live for,’ He thinks as they ascend the rickety stairs, his mind only half there as usual, as if he can't pull himself out. At times he doesn't even want to. He supposes, anyway, that it's better to have a small reason than nothing at all.

The door to their room looks as if just touching it will give him splinters, but Nott doesn't hesitate to unlock the ugly thing and shove it open, bits of dust kicking up at the sudden movement and catching in his lungs like ash. It's an unpleasant reminder, one that makes him waver for a moment.

The soft brush of fur against his leg pulls him back.

Frumpkin, having followed at a distance, looks up at him, pretty feline eyes giving him a slow, calming blink that sets his heart onto another, steadier beat.

“Good kitty.” He whispers, scooping the animal into his arms, then closing the door with his foot. The loss of gold is always a blow, but never does he regret it. Nott needs the food the rest gets them more than he does anyway.

The room is small and simple, a single bed with a thin blanket thrown over it in the middle underneath an open widow and a clunky table by the bed, but it seems as if no other furniture would fit comfortably. Nott sits on the bed with her legs drawn up to her chin, the perfect picture of a child, almost. They'll have a tight fit, but they've made it work with worse. A rest in a hollow tree in particular comes to mind.

“We're doing it tonight, then, right? No one's seen our faces, just a human size person and someone small. We'll sleep, leave at night, then get to the spot we were told about?” Nott asks, clumsily shoving the heavy material off her shoulders, distaste clear. It's a worn, ugly brown thing, but the less they stand out, the better. He was born a traitor to the Empire and he'll see through such a title in his adulthood if he must. Nott shares the same sordid tale, in a way, as well. It doesn't make her loyalty any easier to swallow.

“Liebling...you don't have to do this as well. This is...a crime you can't take back. If we are caught, we will be executed, probably tortured. I can not...I can not ask this of you.” Caleb grits out, eyes sad, posture sad, everything about him spells out a tragedy, a broken down man who would see it fit to lay down right in an alley and never get up again.

She'll be the first to admit she's gotten in a bit too deep with him than was the plan, but he's her boy now, and she'll do whatever it takes to help him back from that brink of oblivion.

She says, “You had a family, and they took that from you, so now they'll get what's coming. I'm with you, Caleb, and you won't be changing my mind no matter how many times you ask before we do this kind of thing,” and he can't argue with her, not when she smiles like she's snarling, her sharp teeth on display in what might scare any other away. She's trying, and that's what makes her special, what takes away that inborn fear of her race he should have. There's only two other people who have given him such trust, such dedication, and now they're dead, just ash long gone in the wind. He won't see her end with the same fate.

It doesn't matter who he must take down to see to that.

~°~

Leaving the tavern with their hoods up just as the moon breaches the sky is frighteningly easy. No one so much as looks at them, even at what an odd time it must be to leave a perfectly warm bed.

There are four more patrons than last time, but such a small town is unlikely to gather more. They've paid for the whole night, but they'll be long gone by the time morning rolls around, if all goes well.

Caleb prays, desperately, that it does. He can't stand the thought of losing Nott too. It will kill him if he does, he thinks.

The goblin is quick to snatch up loose copper coins near market stalls as they pass, never enough to be noticed, but enough to get them food at their next stop, a bigger town out of the backwater village, miles down the road. Trostenwald, a name that has Nott wrinkling her nose every time he brings it up.

“It sounds like a mushroom! Who wants to live in mushroom town?!” She asks, boots--she did not wish to wear--stomping on the wet patches of grass from yesterday's rain shower, splashing up her legs and spattering onto his already dirty coat. On his shoulders, Frumpkin looks down at her making a mess with disdain. He has not forgiven her for dropping him in a stream once, and Caleb doubt's he ever will.

“The town is known for their alcohol, actually.” He responds, and laughs when she lights up so much that even her ears seem to twitch in delight.

“Really? We must go there then! Think of all the shinies...and beer!”

“It is along the Amber Road, and not too far from here. If this goes well, once we've disposed of the bodies, we may be on our way.” Caleb decides, and smiles softly as she discreetly pumps her fist into the air, beginning to bounce on her heels instead of sulk while slogging through the mud. He'd done something right, then.

Above them, the bright moon guides their way, and Frumpkin is quick to nip at his jaw if they seem to blindly stray off the route they'd decided on to encircle the targets camp. From here, he can see a single trail of smoke rising above the treeline, and the rough Zemnian of the soldiers still awake.

Good. He wants them to be awake when they die.

Nott's hand on his elbow draws him to a stop, and he leans down towards her when she gets up on her toes to reach his ear.

“That's them! You go around, I'm going to scale one of the trees for a better vantage. Then we wack ‘em.” She says, eyes alight with humor. Despite the grim proceedings, she still finds time to make light for him.

He presses a swift kiss to her forehead after they've both taken off their unsuitably heavy cloaks, and slips into the shadows, chest aching when they don't converge around him as they once did. They are not the suffocating enigmas from his childhood, just a darkness created from the lack of light. The loss of Tirich is an ache in his chest that doesn't go away, that leaves him empty, hollow. Their bond is silent, flat. Dead. It hurts in a way he can't describe, but Nott gives him purpose.

This mission gives him purpose. An eye for an eye is a motto he has taken to clinging to religiously, because without a purpose, he is little more than a husk. He has to wonder what will happen to him when the soldiers that set that fire and tore his family apart are finally dead and buried. Will he find enough purpose in Nott? Will the need to take care of her and little Frumpkin be enough to pull him from that constant loop of nothing he’d been in at the asylum before she’d been caught stealing from a captain of the guard and thrown in there to rot with him? He doesn't have an answer, and it scares him.

Carefully, Caleb sets Frumpkin onto the ground and urges him into the brush by the clearing the men have claimed as theirs for tonight, slipping easily into the cats eyes.

He sees five of them, and recognizes two. One, who had been one of the spear soldiers in the woods by the cleric, laughing as Tirich slipped out of Caleb's arms like grains of sand in an hourglass.

The other is a woman, her hands clasped in prayer near the fire. He can remember her tying the rope around his wrists so tight his hands turned blue, because he was a heretic living in the woods and so far as she cared, they all deserved it. She had spit on the ashes of his home and rejoiced in the name of Bahamut. She is the one they've been tracking, the other is just good luck. He wonders if they've stuck together because they care for one another. He hopes so, truthfully. He'll take his time breaking one in front of the other if so.

Frumpkin comes back at his urging, as does the sound of rushing water, the trees creaking in the wind as if they'll crack and fall right then and there, an owl far above him looking for its dinner. He takes special note of the water. It would do well to have a place to dump the bodies, aside from where they themselves fall. Someone will come across the camp eventually, so close to the road as it is, and rotting corpses clearly killed by a crossbow bolt and fire isn't exactly helpful to them. The longer it takes to be discovered, the easier time they'll have with getting as far away from the area as they can.

Nott's sharp bird call alerts not just him, but the others as well. It's not meant to be discreet, and it does well to raise their hackles. No bird sounds quite so unnatural and angry.

She's waiting for his signal, he knows, but he allows himself a moment to relish the apprehension on their faces, the way the target speeds up with her prayer but refuses to break it. Even without a God, Caleb can respect that sort of devotion. Or he would, if she were not the one to have taken such a thing away from him.

Prestidigitation extinguishes the fire allowing them to see, and only Caleb's childhood training keeps him from stumbling in the dark as they do. It's a pity he can't see Nott's handiwork as the telltale, slick thunk of a bolt leaving the weapon sounds in the air and catches one of the panicking soldiers through the open faceplate, lodging halfway through his skull and sending his gurgling body to the ground, armour and all. He doesn't live long after that, but by then Nott has already moved on, catching another soldier in the chest plate but not killing him, his stumble and grunt the only sign she's got him at all.

He moves easily out of the treeline and ignites his hand, sending a wave of heat up his arm and illuminating his face partially. He's aware of them swiveling to face him, only for Nott's target to be engulfed in flame by a toned down fire bolt, right through his helmet, spreading under his armour instead of over it until it's cooking him from the inside.

The third unimportant soldier is groggy and unarmed, no armour on his body and barely out of the dredges of sleep. He looks young, maybe in his early twenties. Caleb has to fight his own aversion to his actions, the burning in his throat as if transferred from his hands, the guilt. Barely a man and already dead with a throwing knife clean through his throat. It's fast, at least. Small blessings.

The fourth soldier is up and awake, helmet off, spear in hand and fury on his face, but Caleb feels only that familiar rush of hatred as he's charged at, coat catching on the spearhead as he attempts to get out of reach, ripping a patch off the already worn cloth. The man tumbles from the lurching of his weapon and rights himself quickly, once more jabbing at what he assumes is his chest. Caleb has no melee weapon to fend him off. He has only one option, even if it makes his stomach roil and his hands shake.

Even then, he doesn't hesitate to allow the man in close enough to touch so that he can rest his hands hard against his face and turn up the heat as much as possible without burning himself out.

Caleb has never done this before.

Throwing fire bolts, causing explosions, alighting a campfire, certainly, but he's never felt human skin melt in his hands, felt the ignited fire dance along his knuckles causing small twinges of pain from where it's left his control and got caught on the man's hair. He can watch up close as the skin blisters and cooks, as the man who laughed at his misfortune screams for mercy, unable to do anything as Caleb absentmindedly digs his thumbs into his eyes and pushes the fire in. It's sickening, but he can't look away.

The man falls silent shortly after, but his skin has stuck to Caleb's hands, and it hurts to rip away, peeling off the leathery tissue from the skull. The body drops with a thud, and all he can do is stare at his fingers, at the strange thickness of the blood that coats the burnt flesh, at the slight burns on his own hands.

This is what they did to his mother, then. What they did to all of them.

His eyes raise to the cleric, to the way she screams at him, straining against the rope Nott has wrangled around her, tears on her cheeks that he can only see from the still burning corpses around them. He can't hear her over the ringing in his ears, and perhaps that too is a blessing.

Carefully, Nott lowers his still raised arms and wipes off his hands with the water from one of the soldiers flask and a ripped piece of cloth, a grimace on her face at the burns. They'll need to be wrapped, he notes, distantly. She moves her lips, but he can't hear her, though her furrowed brow tells him she's asking something out of concern, probably, and it stills his heart a little.

Bit by bit, awareness returns. He takes note of what he can hear.

One, his laboured breathing, heavy in his head.

Two, Nott mumbling a Zemnian tavern song to him that he’d taught her on the third day they’d been together as she cuts off scraps of her bandages and wraps them around his hands.

Three, Frumpkin purring away at his feet, twining between his legs, clearly feeling his mood.

Four, the crackling of the fire, the stench of burning flesh and ash in the air, filling his lungs like an old friend.

Five, the hysterical, muffled screaming of the cleric, who has yet to stop kicking and wriggling in her bonds. She looks at him with the same hatred he looks at her with.

Caleb can't help but smile, a little, at that, and scoffs when it enrages her more. Despite the numbness spreading through his chest and blocking out the skin crawling disgust for himself and his mission, he still can't help but take vicious satisfaction in seeing her suffer so thoroughly.

It's still not enough. Perhaps it never will be, to quell the age old rage tucked away in his chest that drags grief right along with it. How many of these soldiers must die before he's satisfied his family has been avenged?

“Caleb, are you with me?” Nott asks, small hands in his, mindful of the bandages.

He doesn't know the answer to either of those questions.

“Yes. Yeah. Let's take what we need, food, valuables, whatever else you wish to nab. No point letting it all go to waste.”

He lowers himself in front of the woman and waits for her to calm down, or to exhaust herself trying to get free, while Nott excitedly rifles through their belongings, pointedly not looking at the bodies she must step around. She keeps her spirits up for him, and he's never wanted to pull her into a hug more, but now isn't the time. Frumpkin stepping into his lap will have to do.

~°~

It does not take her long to shoot her voice from her screaming, and only then does he pull the makeshift gag out from between her teeth, keeping it in hand just incase.

Her deep brown eyes are puffy and red from sobbing, her body wracked with shivers, perhaps from fear, perhaps from anger. By the way she mimes spitting in his face, unable to do so with her lack of saliva, he can take a guess.

That's fine. It's mutual, anyway.

“Your name is Kadetta Markov. You were born in a foreign land and came to Zadash with your father. You were intimate with a mercenary named Adul once, and he sold you out to me at the cost of four mugs of ale.” Caleb tells her, voice flat, and watches with no expression as a flash of hurt crosses her face. She had not expected him to cross her so easily, then, but it's funny how quick people are to sell you out for a bit of coin.

She says nothing.

“A very long time ago you were ordered to pray for protection for soldiers while they rooted out a God your precious Empire did not approve of, and in doing so, you watched as an entire family burned alive in their homes. All but one. Caleb Widogast.”

At this, Kadetta frowns, or more precisely, scowls, as if unable to see the relevancy of it.

“Ja, I did! I'd do it again too! What of it?!” She spits, casting a glare towards his legs as Frumpkin yowls at her, clearly picking up on Caleb's abrupt rise in temper.

“You aren't a coward, I will give you that. Well Kadetta, my name is Caleb. Caleb Widogast. I'm happy I get to see you again, one last time.” He says, soft, voice lowering until she strains to hear him.

Then, she laughs, mockingly, condescension dripping from her tone. It doesn't matter. There's not a thing she could say to make him hate her more, and he's seen this tactic from every villain possibly ever created in the books Mama would read to him before bed. He lets her get it out of her system, before glancing at Nott and nodding when she raises a dagger and jerks it down, clumsily, along Kadetta's leg, wrenching a scream out of her throat and abruptly halting her laughter.

“Spare me the theatrics, you are not a villain in a story. You are a murderer, just like me. I only want answers from you.”

At this, she heaves a rattling breath of air, coughing from the smoke still rising around them. “Why would I tell you a damn thing?” She asks, and he glances pointedly at the dagger digging into her leg.

“Because people talk, Kadetta, one way or another, and I have done this before. They always talk. You will too, and I have a long time to make it happen.”

Kadetta does not answer him, so Nott yanks the blade away from where she held it into the gouge, and shoves it into her shoulder instead, far enough that it pokes out from the other side, then pulls it back out again with a strange pop and a spray of blood. She can't quite stifle her sob of pain, nor can he stop his hands from shaking, from noticing the way Nott stands as still as a statue and does not look at the wounds she is causing. Three, four times they've done this and it doesn't seem to get any easier.

“You are going to die, and I know you know it. It can be slowly, or it can be quick. Tell me the name of man who lit the fire. Tell me the name of the one who ordered this to happen in the first place.”

“Fuck you.”

Caleb stops Nott from going at her other leg, this time, and crouches down. Another thing he's never done, but it doesn't even matter if he messes up. No better way to practice, then.

He ignites his hand and presses the flame against her wound, watching with disgust, but also a bit of clinical interest as the bleeding slows and the skin burns.

“Stop, stop! I'll tell you, please s-stop!” Kadetta howls, and he steps back to let Nott throw the rest of the water in the flask used to clean his hands on the burn, forcing the woman to hiss through her teeth even as the flames that got caught on her clothing is doused.

“Names.” Nott suggests, quietly, when the silence broken only by Kadetta's ragged breathing drags on.

“The wizard, the one lighting the fire, there were two. A girl and a boy, apprentices to the one who gave the order. I-It was an initiation, a test of their loyalty to the Empire. If they couldn't root out people like you who spit in the face of our laws, then they were not fit for their role. Eodwulf and Astrid. The one...the boss was Trent Ikithon. But don't kid yourself on going after him. You'll never be able to touch him!” She laughs through clenched teeth, with a desperate sort of panic in her eyes. She's told her secrets, and now she knows what's to come.

Caleb doesn't pause long to digest the information.

He grabs Nott's dagger and unceremoniously slashes it across Kadetta’s throat, the cut clumsy, but he doesn't care. The deed is done.

Kadetta is dead, and now there's only four more people left. Eodwulf and Astrid, the apprentices, Heinrich, the last soldier that managed to get out alive from Tirich's initial assault, and Trent.

Trent Ikithon sounds familiar in a way that makes his head spin. Someone important. Something to do with an Academy, one his mother had thought about enrolling him in when she found out about his proficiency in magic until Tirich put a firm stop to it. He'd been so angry when he'd heard the suggestion, but Caleb had never wondered why beyond its association with the Empire. Not for the first time, he has to wonder what all Tirich knew, and why he acted so human to a child that couldn't have been any more special than any of his other family members. He was called “hero”, and “champion”, but never did he understand what it meant.

With a sharp stab of grief, he forces the thoughts away. It doesn't matter anymore. He won't be getting the answers to those questions.

“They don't sound familiar to me. Do you know them?” Nott asks, and Caleb shakes his head for a second, fingers running through his dirty, matted hair. He longs for the cleanliness that Tirich always wanted him to maintain, but until the remaining four are dead in the ground, it's best that he look the part of a dirty vagabond.

“Nein, only Trent, but not enough to be sure. We will check in Trostenwald. For now, we should...we should dispose of the bodies. I'll have Frumpkin find the river, or whatever it is. Sit tight.”

Slipping into Frumpkin's perspective is a breath of fresh air, leaving behind the strong rush of nothing in his ears and replacing it with the oftentimes overwhelming sounds of nature, enhanced with the cats senses. With a push, the familiar follows the flow of water, loping over fallen trees and eyes catching on mice scurrying through the grass, but ultimately he wins out over the instinct to chase.

It's not a very large stream, nor is it very far away, but by the way a sunken log just barely breaches the top, it is deep. They'll fill the pockets and armour with rocks, then, and leave the bodies at the bottom.

He slips back out, and leaves Frumpkin to his field mice. The familiar deserves it after so much excitement.

“It's a bit away from the road, we should focus on pulling the bodies to it before sinking them.” He tells her, and quickly unties the knot his little companion made of the rope binding Kadetta.

“Why not just throw them in and let them go downstream?”

“It leads somewhere. Higher chance of the bodies being found quicker, and when they are...”

She grimaces at that, and hurries her steps.

Kadetta does not weigh much, but he's worried about the three in armour. It'll take a lot longer to get them to the stream than he'd like, but there's little else they can do.

Together with Nott, he drags Kadetta with him and she pulls the youngest of the soldiers behind her, kicking up rocks and leaving an uncomfortable amount of blood behind. They'll have to cover it up on the way back once they're done, too.

It will be a long countdown till morning, but not a very fun one.

~°~

The sun is just beginning to filter through the tall trees of the wood when they finish pushing dirt over the blood trails around camp, and almost to the midway point in the sky before he feels comfortable enough with their distance to relax. There's little he can do to hide the evidence further, and it sets his nerves off until his stomach is twisted uncomfortably, enough so that the miles between them and the bodies is somewhat losing out over his shot nerves. The thought of being caught terrifies him in a way he can't quite explain. They would torture then execute him publicly, and Nott would get it worse, perhaps, for her race. His mission would be ruined, his closest companion killed, and his life over before he could get back on his feet properly. It's a fate he prays never happens, though always his prayers go unanswered. He prefers not to think about why.

Nott is a heavy weight on his back where he carries her, their cloaks wrapped tight around them to stave off the morning chill and to hide the blood stains on their clothing that they couldn't quite get out in the stream. She had collapsed against him the moment the last body was pushed under the red tinged water, and now her light snores ruffle the hair on the back of his neck. It does well for his anxiety, feeling her so close and alive, Frumpkin asleep across his neck and the sun warming his face.

It's barely enough to chase away the dark thoughts and ruminations of the ambush, of those that they've killed even when not attacked or threatened.

But it's not enough to stop his heart from skipping at the sight of a wagon loaded with people ahead.

Clearly, they've been camping, and surely couldn't have heard the attack. Already he is a good four miles away from the site, and they couldn't have been that loud. There aren't even soldiers, only a teenage girl and who he assumes are her parents, both of whom are armed with swords that he doubt's they've used. It doesn't matter. If they catch on…

He just hopes they don't.

“Hm? Aye, hello there, traveler! You look rather grim faced.” The father says cheerfully once they get close enough to the nearly packed away camp. The mother does not look as welcoming, but nor does she look outright hostile, while the girl dozes in the back of the wagon, unmoved by the slight commotion.

Caleb has to think fast.

“Signs of a bandit attack down the road that way, ain't seen any but what looked like an abandoned camp and blood, well...I wasn't sticking around, not with my girl with me.” He spouts out, adding a common enough accent to his voice that mixes well with the Zemnian. By the softening of their faces once they catch sight of the small body on his back that they easily assume is a child, he knows he's got them. Thankfully.

“Gods, bandits roaming the fields, coming so close to towns, madness I tell ye’. But I ain't gonna let no man and his little girl walk, specially with something like that happenin’. Hop on in the back and don’t mind me daughter Yelena, she ain’t rising till midday, at least!” The man offers with a fond laugh, and Caleb doesn't have to fake a grateful smile or a sigh of relief. His entire body aches from the strain of extra weight with no stop for a nap, or food or water, and it can't be good for Nott to sleep so curled over against his back.

“Thank you very much, kind sir. I'm Darren, and the tyke is Maera. I'm grateful she slept through the whole scene, and for your help.” He says with a crooked smile he hasn't used since before losing his home, the kind of smile that speaks of a charm he's long since lost.

“Maera, a fine name! I'm Bylaw, and this here's my wife Esha. Been married and on the road for years now. Settled down when Yelena was born but she's just like her ma, had to be out on the road the moment she turned fourteen!” Bylaw exclaims, pride clear in his voice as he gazes at the girl beside Caleb, who still doesn't seem to want to wake. He has to respect her dedication, at least.

“Maera's mother didn't make it through childbirth, may the Raven Queen guide her in death, so now I'm just tryna find us a place to settle down, going from village to village. Thinkin' about Trostenwald next.”

At that, Esha shakes her head, pushing the last of their supplies into the wagon, stopping to wipe her brow and dust off her sun bleached skirt.

“Mm, wouldn't recommend it these days. Got word from some bard going where you came from that some folks been murdered at a Circus or Carnival of some sort there, told us the towns on lockdown with the whole Crownsguard on alert.”

At this, Caleb freezes, and only Esha's interest in gulping down some of her own water keeps her from seeing it, while Bylaw scans the road in front of them for trouble.

The last thing they need so soon is a town swarming with soldiers. Once the bodies are discovered, Trostenwald will be the first to know, so close to the place as it is. Of course there's always a detour around the village, then onwards towards Alfield.

“Sounds like a buncha unnecessary holdup for people who ain't got the time for it. Anything heard about Alfield, then?” He asks, and Esha shakes her head, going around the wagon to hop up front beside her husband.

“Naw, nothing other than the usual, seems fine up there. We can drop you off there if you'd like?” Bylaw asks, and Caleb nods gratefully, settling down once more with Nott pressed snug into his chest under his cloak, her breath warming his skin.

The wagon starts up soon after, Bylaw and Esha's fond banter filling his ears along with Nott and Yelena's soft breathing.

Right. They're okay.

Alfield it is, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I'm having fun fucking with Caleb's personality because there's reason to with his change of back story? Cause I sure am. He's still Caleb, but he's a little bit more angry. You would be too.
> 
> No Molly, but our beautiful disaster God will be here soon. I'm drawing it out for a reason, I promise you.
> 
> Also a question for you all, how much would you prefer I stick to the d&d aspect of spell components and what not, or would you not mind if I just played fast and loose with it and let Caleb cast to his hearts content? Of course if I were to play with those bigger spells like resurrection or whatever I'd bring in the spell components but I just mean for something used in battle scenes. It's particularly awkward for me to try to implement that kind of thing into a written story when I'm not very good at battle scenes in the first place but it's up to you guys on that front.
> 
> Next chapter: more random people die, we say goodbye to my hesitation to juggle more than 4 characters in one scene, and Frumpkin acts more and more like a person as I write


	4. Until Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for long panic attack at the end of the chapter, I'm sorry but it's rather necessary for you to read it, so from this point on just know that these are going to be popping up, there's also a small one before the big one, mentions of depression in the beginning of the chapter and graphic descriptions of death! If you are unable to handle these themes, please, for the sake of my mind and your mental health, do not read this story. I love you all and I want you to stay safe!
> 
> A side note, however, is that from the point of the last chapter and onwards there will be major changes to canon events!! Buckle in, lovelies, and enjoy the ride.

(-Oh my love, we'll meet again, we always do in the end, our two souls destined to be, you and I until eternity-)

The road to Alfield is bumpy and cold and his paranoia is up tenfold every time he so much as hears an unfamiliar noise off in the woods.

Overall, he settles himself down and prepares for an unpleasant journey filled with nothing but the breathing of the girls in his ears and the chirping of the birds.

The silence, however, doesn't last long.

They're halfway to the village when Yelena wakes, abrupt and loud with a snort and almost bellowing yawn, raising her arms with her mouth wide open, startling Caleb so bad that he knocks his elbow into the wood of the wagon and Bylaw glances back with a knowing sort of grin.

“That's my girl alright, but I reckon your own sleeps like a corpse not to wake up from all this racket. Darlin’, welcome back to the land of the only half dead!” The latter half is directed to Yelena, who's murky green eyes stay focused on Caleb with a childish kind of mirth. Clearly, she's delighted to have a visitor, of sorts. He isn't entirely sure what to call himself given the circumstances.

“Mornin’ Pa, Ma, and the handsome fella beside me! Oh, and the little lady, though I don't think she can hear me.” The girl laughs, and it's sweet, cheerful, the sort of laugh you'd do a whole lot of stupid things for just to hear it. His mother laughed like that, once upon a time. Despite the bitter taste in his throat at the rise of memories, a part of him can't help but be pleased to hear something so similar, just this once. It hurts, but in a good way, in a healing way, maybe.

The problem is that he isn't quite sure he wants to heal. If he does, he'll be letting his hatred go, and then what will he do?

“A-Ah, good mornin’. I am Darren, and this here's my daughter Maera. Almost to Alfield, before you ask.” He introduces them before she can get curious, not that it'll stop her from prying. He's had time to think of a story, of course, but he didn't take it, too caught up in replaying the events of the night, and the foreboding feeling in his gut that says something big is looming in the distance. Tirich's undoubtedly left a mark on him through constant exposure to divinity, tainted as it may be, and sometimes gut reactions warn him of things. He's taken to heeding them, but turning away from Alfield isn't an option anymore.

Into the jaws of death they go, he supposes.

“Darren, hm? Sounds foreign! Maera got a ma?” Yelena asks, eyelashes fluttering. He wonders if she's got something stuck in her eye, he wouldn't doubt it, the road is dusty enough to make his lungs seize when the wagon jostles and flings up dirt.

“Not anymore, not that it matters to YOU, little girl. Don't go botherin’ the poor man.” Esha snaps from the front, sharp eyebrow raised even at the sheepish face the younger girl makes so quickly at the look. Bylaw only hums contentedly beside his wife, clearly not willing to get between the two and their strange bonding moment. Caleb doesn't understand it either, though he also feels awfully like he's missed something in that conversation.

“Was just havin’ a bit a fun, Ma! I ain't old enough to be takin’ care of a child, let alone one that ain't my own, stop worryin’ so much.” Yelena scoffs, waving her hand dismissively towards her parents, then Caleb.

At his questioning look, the two women look at him with amused sympathy, then engage back in conversation about dinner, entirely forgetting both him and the strange altercation.

“You get used to it.” Bylaw says to him over his shoulder, clearly catching Caleb's baffled expression.

It does nothing to comfort him, and Nott's snort against his collarbone that she most certainly did not make in her sleep doesn't help.

At least he won't be suffering alone.

“So Darren, what's your story?”

Caleb raises his eyes from where they rested fondly on Nott pretending to sleep and instead focused on Yelena, her slightly tangled hair hanging limp in her face matching her vaguely irritated expression, knife in hand catching in the sun and causing his eyes to squint slightly in her direction. Esha had apparently handed her a potato, and he has to wonder how long it took them to master peeling potatoes and cooking so effortlessly even in a moving wagon. Undoubtedly it's necessary for such a constantly roving lifestyle, but he can't say he envies them their freedom. Even he has a limit to the vagabond persona.

“There ain't much to tell, to be honest, girlie. Was a farmer in a town that ain't even round here anymore from some kinda beast that moved in cause o’ the soldiers marching and tramplin’ it's home. Took me childhood sweetheart and fled, too late for me parents, had a kid but the woman ain't make it through the birth. Now we're just lookin’ for a place to settle down, build some roots, good and proper place for a child.” It was cobbled together hastily at best, but his voice does not shake nor stumble even with the accent, and that’s a miracle in and of itself. Still, it's solid enough to hold up to scrutiny. Close people died so he has an excuse to wave off questions, a clear but loose goal and the addition of a child and widower helps immensely.

Caleb wonders when he had gotten so comfortable with lying.

“Oh, you poor things! Alfield is a nice enough place, maybe y'all can settle down there? Ain't too big but I'm sure it's got a few kids for the little one there to make friends with.” Esha tutted, tossing a small sack of vegetables to Yelena who just barely manages to shift her avid attention from Caleb to the cloth before it lands on her, causing her to yelp and smack the woman lightly on the arm. Their easy relationship makes his chest ache.

“Can't imagine losin’ me Ma and Pa, and all in one night too. I'm sorry, sir.” She says, softly, once her parents attention has passed back to the road and away from the two. He has a feeling they can still hear them, but Bylaw notches up his volume enough to drown them out somewhat, and something like gratitude blooms in his chest, along with guilt. This family is terribly nice, not even looking at him with suspicion after the initial meeting, letting him meet their young daughter, letting him into what is technically their home. He hates that he has to lie, but not lying? 

Not lying will get them killed.

“Ain't your fault, girl, don't go apologizing. Life has a way of kickin’ a man when he's down, but I have Maera, and she keeps me going.” It was as close to the truth as he could get it, at least.

“That's true, that's true. You just gotta take one day at a time, and…” At this, the girl trails off, the tips of her ears pink with embarrassment, it seems.

“And?”

Yelena puffs her cheeks out childishly, once more moving her attention to an apple she's plucked from a basket to her left, clearly avoiding his eye. He let's her nonetheless, curiosity getting the best of him, as it tends to do.

“I know I ain't really old enough to be givin’ out advice like some sort of wisewoman, but a while ago I got real sad, couldn't get out of bed, never had no motivation to be doing anything, sometimes I just felt like dyin’ to get out of it all, time passed me by and the longer I let myself stay down, the worse I felt. Pa was frantic, and eventually they found some spirit healer livin' up in the mountains, begged him to heal me,” She pauses, then, hands stilling momentarily, eyes far off in a way he knows he gets sometimes too, in a way that always worries Nott.

“But he couldn't, said it was ‘an ailment of the mind’ and ain't nobody gonna be able to beat it ‘cept for me. Only thing he could do was give me some advice. Said, ‘You have to give yourself a reason to live, you have to think about what you have and what you can have, what you'll miss if you go so soon. Doesn't have to be big, can be something small, like when you'll next eat your favorite food or pet a cat. Make a list, and keep building it. If you can't live for others, then live for yourself.’ And it helped. I still get like that, sometimes, and it ain't ever gonna go away I don't think, but I know of ways to keep myself up. Just...something you should think about. You look like you could use a few reasons yourself.”

Nott has paused in his lap, hands clenching the fabric of his shirt for a moment, before nodding just a bit, as if agreeing with the wisdom of the tiny little thing of a girl before him. Suddenly, he thinks he can see what Bylaw so clearly sees, the strong lines of her face, the rough skin of her hands that tell of hard work and the way her pretty Jade eyes dance with youth and something a little older, experience she shouldn't have had to deal with so early. She'll grow into a fine woman, he thinks, and smiles at her, a true one that chases away the shadows from his face for just a moment, shows the handsome man he clearly is underneath the horrors of his past.

“Thank you, Yelena.” He says, and he finds that he means it.

~°~

By the time they reach Alfield the sun has just reached the tops of the trees, and Esha has switched seats with Yelena to patch a hole in one of her skirts with some stray cloth, deft fingers making quick work with the needle and thread, enough so that even Caleb is somewhat entranced by the quick, constant movements.

The sloping roofs of the buildings finally enter into his vision when he glances up, and he carefully nudges a dozing Nott so she can peek out from the blanketing cloak and take a look.

Strangely, people seem wary, guards posted by the village entrance holding tight to their weapons as the wagon passes by them and enters the town, the people hustling by on the dirty streets clearly nervous about something or other. He can't see any soldiers, specifically, only the usual guards that are never too worrisome or hard to deal with. Something hard balls up in his gut, a foreign sort of worry, and he knows it isn't all from the strained atmosphere. The foreboding feeling is strong, strong enough to make him grip the clasps of the cloak shielding Nott hard enough for his fingers to turn white from the pressure.

“Hm, ain't like the look of these people, seems like no town round here can catch a break.” Bylaw mutters, low enough for only those in the wagon to hear.

Even Yelena is subdued, her previous excited bouncing upfront reduced to the swaying of her legs, a light thump sounding out every time she kicks her ankles back against the seat.

“Maybe it's cause of the murders in that other town?” She suggests, tentatively, and Bylaw ruffles her hair for comfort, pasting a fake grin onto his face for her benefit.

“Ha, maybe so! Don't think we'll be leavin’ town now, then, not if there's problems out on the road.” The rounded man says with finality, and Yelena twists around in her seat to look at Caleb with delight clear in her eyes.

“We're stayin’ here then! We could stay together, do you think?”

It's a bad idea. He knows it, Nott knows it, hell, even Frumpkin probably knows it. Nott, or ‘Maera’, can't stay asleep forever, they'll have to meet her. Sometimes she gets nervous when lying, she might slip up, Gods knows they'll be able to SEE she isn't human, he'll have to cast Disguise Other, and who knows for how long, it only lasts an hour, two at most if he taps into his magic a bit more than he should.

It's a terrible idea.

“Sounds good to me.” Caleb says, and holds back a wince at the sharp prick of goblin talons digging into the skin above his collarbone. Yes, definitely a bad idea, but strangely, it feels right. That alone should have him turning right back around, the blood on his hands be damned, but that would mean leaving behind the ruse of normality, the gentle humming of Esha and the loud stories of Bylaw, the kind eyes of Yelena and the offer of rest, for just a moment. Acceptance for once in such a long time. He's tired, his body aches, the wounds on his hands need to be cleaned, he needs a proper sleep. Is it truly so wrong of him to take this opportunity now that he can?

Yelena squeals excitedly at his answer and turns back around, eyes searching for at least one person who isn't so tense and angry to speak to for directions. Tirich guide him, but it's too late now anyway.

Esha eventually gets up and smooths her skirt down, easily hopping over the top of the seats at the front despite the dragging of her dress to join the discussion of lodgings with some merchant they've managed to stop, much to the amusement of her husband, and Caleb breathes a soft sigh of relief through his nose, no longer so close to someone who can pick up on his magic.

When he glances down, he meets the sickly yellow of Nott's eyes, and when he wiggles his fingers, she gives him a reluctant nod. Usually he teases her on her dislike of illusion magic, the strange way it feels like sloppily caked on makeup to be wiped off that she hates so much and that he can actually sympathize with. It doesn't take very long to cast, but it feels like being covered in mud, the more elaborate the illusion, the worse the feeling, never mind the tang of oil that resides in your mouth from the magic. Frankly, cloaks are just easier.

It takes a bit of creative movement on his part to get his hand onto her face without moving the cloak too much and letting the soft glow of his hands out, but eventually he manages it, watching with held breath as she changes, her skin turning from green to a more suitable tan like that of someone from a tropical climate, her yellow eyes taking a bit of time to finally settle on blue and her stringy black hair changing into brown curls that go down her shoulders. Her distinctive ears disappear easily enough, and her talons do as well, teeth expanding until she looks entirely human. And enough like him to pass inspection, so long as she isn't touched. That can be handled, though.

With a glance towards the front confirming that Esha is seemingly arguing furiously with the merchant--who looks suitably terrified by her sudden temper--and Bylaw and Yelena watching animatedly, all three thankfully distracted, he uncovers her from his own cloak and bends towards her face, careful not to touch her hidden ears.

“We will need a cover story as to why you can not be touched and why you do not speak much, ja? We will say you are shy and uncomfortable with strangers after we ran into ‘very bad men’ who wanted to hurt us, it will make them not pry. Your name is Maera and I am Darren, your mother is dead, they need not know more.” Caleb relays, and his lips twitch into a smile when she beams at him in a way she'd never be comfortable doing outside of the illusion, at least not in public. Her resemblance to his little cousins makes his chest ache, but her features are removed enough not to be too similar. Her nose and eye shape match a form Tirich had taken once, when he fancied himself as a female human, so much so that the brief look Mama had gotten of the form had her thinking Caleb had brought a girl home and she'd about had a heart attack.

Weakly, he smiles back, and fully let's her out of his lap, watching with amusement as she wrinkles her nose at the mass of villagers crowding around the streets and tugs her own cloak tighter around her despite the safety of the illusion. By the look in her blue eyes, though, he can tell she's thinking about what they have in their pockets more than what they might think when they look at her.

“Oh, Darren you ain't say ya little girl is so cute!” Yelena coos suddenly, having turned around to tell them of their success with both directions and scaring the merchant half to death with Esha's motherly no nonsense attitude.

Nott jumps somewhat at the sudden attention of the three strangers, and doesn't even need to remember to act shy before she's diving back into his cloak and tucking herself away. Yelena looks much like she herself is about to dive into his lap too to get to her, but Esha lays a stop to that with a sharp look, eyes softening when she turns back.

“Poor dear, terribly shy ain't she? No wonder you had her under that cloak. Well, honey, ain't no reason to be afraid, but I know it ain't that simple, me little sister was the same, always hiding in me skirts when we were tykes when Ma thought her too old to be actin’ such a way.” Esha says, and her soft voice even manages to coax Nott out enough to see clearly, Yelena immediately beginning to fawn over her curls again. 

He isn't entirely certain what's so special about them, it was a common hairstyle amongst his village, even Tirich took the occasional form capable of having it, whatever gender he preferred on that day. Caleb took better to the soft hair of the blue male tieflings with long, cascading blackish curls than the others, despite his appreciation for all of them, though. There was just something mesmerizing about the apparent ‘demon folk’. Some say that it's part of their evil, the allure they all seem to carry with them, but Tirich always said it was just the ravings of ‘sexually repressed married men’ and ‘bitter old hags’. Apparently they were far more rare than he'd assumed, because for all the time he's been out of that accursed pit with Nott, he's not seen a single one. Strange, that he's seen a goblin more than the race he grew up with.

“Ain't always been this way, but she got more skittish after we ran into some bandits awhile back. They ain't get to her, but she was the one that ran right into them thinkin’ they were friendly. Been like this ever since.” Caleb finally replies when he's sure Yelena's excitement won't drown out his explanation.

Sure enough, all three faces slacken with sympathy, making that bitter guilt rise in his chest again.

‘It's necessary,’ He tells himself, ‘it's either this or killing them for having seen you so soon after the ambush.’

It doesn't make him feel any better since the first time he's repeated it to himself.

“Bah, damn bandits, curse ‘em all. Always goin’ after we honest folk with nary a coin to our names,” Bylaw says, then snorts, “well, usually nary a coin. Got some after tradin’ in some clothes Esha made, got enough for two rooms and a meal, I should think. That merchant back there Esha shook down says there's two places to stay here in town, but said it's cheaper over in Feed and Mead Tavern, told us to talk to some Crute fella. Why don't the two of y'all go explore the town a little, stretch ya legs, get settled, see if this is the place for y'all? We'll just go get our rooms.”

Caleb glances at Nott, who lights up like a candle, eyes darting from him to the various villagers and traveling merchants making their rounds, intent obvious, to him at least, though undoubtedly it looks like permission to the others for her to leave the wagon. At his nod, she grins and hops over the side, easy as you please, surprising a laugh out of Yelena. Clearly they'd thought her more delicate due to her assumed personality.

“Well that settles it then. We'll meet y'all back at the tavern at, oh, sundown?” Caleb calls towards them after having hopped off the back end, carefully pulling his hood back up both to hide his face and to keep the sun off him as best he can, squinting towards the sky despite not needing to check the time. His memory was good for something, at least.

“Aye, we'll see y'all soon. Take care now!” And with that, Bylaw got the wagon moving again, relaxing into his seat as Yelena began to ramble about the town and all the pretty baubles she wanted.

Time to get some information then.

~°~

The main attractions of the town are the inn and the tavern, mostly, and the few travelers that have set themselves up along the main square.

While Nott picks and chooses what she wants like some well bred noble girl looking for jewelry, Caleb asks around, occasionally keeping a certain merchant distracted when she signals him over with a sharp look or a soft hum next to him. Not once is she seen, always blending easily into the darkness of the buildings shadows just like he taught her, easily racking up a hefty bounty of small pieces of jewelry, buttons and the occasional coin, even having the gall to sell a ring back to the very woman she stole it from without her even seeming to notice.

Only one person gives him good information, some man looking to make himself a name by slaying some beasts, though the poor quality of his sword doesn't bode well. Were Caleb a better man he'd offer some coin for him to get more equipment, but then he looks at Nott who tucks a pretty silver ring onto her hand and Frumpkin who bats playfully at the skirts of the village girls, and can't bring himself to. Perhaps, then, were he a lesser man, he'd have disregarded the needs of his family for a fool only looking for glory.

“Some strange travelers came here from Trostenwald, blazin’ into town like their arses were on fire, a monk and tiefling. Devil folk, they are, but they might know somethin’, over in the tavern. Says they got some more people comin’ further down the road but why they split off, I ain't care to know. Not good to be round them demons if you can help it.” The man says, and well, maybe that also helps in his decision. The racism from the common folk will always baffle him.

By the time Nott and Caleb finally meet back up to get to the tavern, the streets have begun clearing out and the guards seemingly all clustering around the area have started filing off towards the entrance to the town, an ominous sign if he's ever seen one. He has to wonder if it's got something to do with the travelers from Trostenwald, if they brought bad news or were actually betraying their group and riding ahead to warn the guard. Only one way to find out.

“Got everything, liebling?” He asks Nott as she navigates to his side, still tucking away coins into her pockets, Frumpkin curled around her neck.

“Yeah, no more itch. Got lots of coin too. These people aren't very smart, buying back their own things. More money for us then.” She snorts, a grip on his cloak to guide him better down a street, despite his good eyesight in the dark. He doesn't have the heart to shake her off.

“Oh, ja, I noticed that. We have enough coin to summon Frumpkin again if we must, thankfully, and for a bath in the morning. I admit, I miss being being clean.” At this, Nott shudders in revulsion, the idea of deep water making her back tingle, and not in a nice way.

“If we never have to take a swim ever again it'll be too soon! I'll just wipe myself down, thanks.” She says with a hiss that doesn't match her round, childish face. It's disturbingly cute, and she casts him a suspicious look when he hides his laugh through a cough. The last thing she'll want is to be called ‘cute’, and he doesn't fancy having her throw Frumpkin at him in retaliation, the familiars claws are like tiny daggers.

“I do not believe the bath is a proper bath so much as a wooden tub filled with warm water and a single bar of soap. Enough for me, at least.”

“If you want soap, I'll just steal some. Probably won't find any good kinds here though...I'll take the soap from the bath then.” Nott decides, and he can't actually complain. Having a bar of soap on hand in their pack would be useful, really.

With a wry smile towards his companion and a quick recast of Disguise Other onto her, he steps past the tavern door, immediately being assaulted by the smell of cheap ale, something weirdly herbal and the yelling of patrons who aren't quite making merry so much as arguing.

The owner of the tavern, a rough looking dwarf--though Caleb hasn't exactly met one who isn't--named Crute is shouting at some red faced man with a sword against his hip. Just as Nott begins to look somewhat excited at the prospect of a bar fight, a woman with an undercut and bun slams her staff into the man's stomach, sufficiently silencing his friends shouting and forcing the drunkard to double over and puke what ale he had drunk onto the floor, thankfully away from anyone near him.

Somehow, the smell of the tavern got worse.

“Wanna bet that she's the monk with the tiefling?” Nott asks, eyes darting to an excited looking blue tiefling in the back of the tavern who is all but vibrating in her seat as the gruff woman finishes exchanging words with Crute and returns to her side. She starkly reminds Caleb of Yelena, and he prays to Tirich they won't end up meeting. The headache that will give Esha might actually kill the poor woman, though he has little doubt there's not a thing that woman can't overcome if she puts her mind to it. He'd have to reevaluate his estimate about her ability with a sword, he's seen her use a knife and needle.

“That's an unfair bet, you little cheater.” He huffs, making her laugh and waking Frumpkin with her movement despite the loud noises having done nothing to make him rise. A truly noble beast indeed.

“I would never cheat you out of money, Caleb! Only Frumpkin and bed space. And maybe not making me get into a bath.”

“That's nonnegotiable.” Caleb responds, then carefully pushes her--still protesting--towards the table the two sit at, making sure to school his expression into something a little more open and friendly. It's hardly what he feels for them but he thinks he can possibly get somewhere with the tiefling if he tries hard enough to be receptive to her personality. As for the monk...no comment.

“Hm? Oh, oh my gosh, Beau look at the little girl! Her hair is so CUTE! Are you her dad?! I am Jester, and this is Beauregard but everyone just calls her Beau, because that's a mouthful!” The tiefling--Jester--all but falls over herself to introduce them, and Caleb almost stumbles over his words at the onslaught of...pure personality. It's more than a little overwhelming, but at least Yelena had given him some preparation. Perhaps not enough.

“Darren, this is Maera, my daughter. Heard from some fool boy that y'all came from Trostenwald, just wonderin’ how it is there, was hopin’ to take me girl there but then we heard it's all locked up from a circus or somethin’ causin' problems.” He manages to get out, keeping his expression relaxed if a bit baffled in the face of Jester's high voice that barely lets him get through his last sentence before going off again. Beau regards them with suspicion, but Nott plays the part of scared girl easily enough to make the monk uncomfortable and flailing to not come off quite so strongly. At least the woman has a conscious, could be used against her if she became a problem. Were he any less suspicious he'd disregard Jester as a threat, but he can see the weapon on her hip and the wear and tear that speaks of battle on her clothes, very small scars on her hands and what skin he can see. She's seen battle, and lived to tell the tale. Whatever her gimmick is, he won't let his guard down.

“Oh, that wasn't their fault, not really, there was a big toad fiend that was being really gross and was, eating a girl? Or something? It was kind of confusing. Molly killed him, so it's fine, but now we're on the road! Adventure! Romance! It's like the novels I used to read, very exciting, right Beau?”

“Hm? What? Yeah, I guess.” Beau awkwardly stumbles, either not used to conversation or completely used to not paying any attention to Jester's rambling. It's rather relatable, because already his nerves are fraying somewhat at the blaise way the young looking tiefling rolls her words. Or maybe it was the fact that she was a blue tiefling, and Tirich favored that form. It's a reminder that he wants very little to do with currently.

“Ah, well, good for this Molly then. Thank ya for your help. I think we'll skip Trostenwald then, hm Mae?” He asks, nearly forgetting to keep his change in speech and accent in his rush to get away from the painful memories. Nott looks somewhat dejected, more for the loss of the promised alcohol than anything else, and nods dutifully when she sees the strain in his eyes, quickly bouncing on her heels and taking off towards the stairs in a mockery of a child's impulsive need to play.

Behind her, hiding his stark relief, Caleb says a polite goodbye to the beaming Jester and somewhat confused Beau and takes off after her, only slowing down once he's sure they're out of view, breathing speeding up until his lungs feel like they're on fire all over again and he tastes ash on his tongue.

Slowly, he lowers himself to the floor of the tavern and takes slow, measured breaths that Nott helps with by bringing his hand to her chest and getting him to count. He isn't entirely gone, not all the way lost in his memories, but he's getting there, even with Nott and Frumpkin trying their best to keep him steady, the cat purring away as loud as can be in his lap to get him to focus on something else.

Over his head he can hear the concerned voice of Yelena and the steady hands of Esha pulling him up and into his and Nott's room, carefully getting him on the one bed. Nott's voice is barely discernible, changed to better fit her illusion, then the closing of a door, his boots being pulled off, the covers lifted, Nott and Frumpkin warm against his sides, then, nothing.

He slips out of his memories and into dreams of fire and the soft hands of Tirich on his face.

~°~

When Caleb wakes, he almost thinks he's simply having a realistic dream, smoke in the room from the windows, the screaming of people from the streets, Nott angrily shaking him awake, Frumpkin howling in distress.

It's takes the sudden sharp bite of talons into his face before he sits up, suddenly, fear and adrenaline pulsing through his veins once more, the memories rising again. This time he has a way to shove them down and lock them up, focusing on the sounds of battle from the streets and the way Nott struggles to get her crossbow untangled from her cloak. Her mask is firmly in place and hood drawn up as far as possible, cloak stuffed into the corner of the room along with his own.

Once she sees he's fully awake, she throws him a dagger just in case, then forces the windows open further to peek out furtively.

“Gnolls, shit! And lots of them! Stupid cat monsters! They attacked a few minutes ago, and I heard the dwarf say that two hours ago nearly all the towns guards were sent out after a patrol of those stupid animals leaving us nearly defenseless! Crute is boarding up the tavern with the smarter townspeople inside, though a lot just ran out into the fields, idiots. I think Jester and Beau left early to meet up with their friends so hopefully we aren't too overwhelmed. Do you...do you think we should help?” Nott asks, finally, after filling him in, and he can hear the question underneath it. Can he handle it? Can he push past the memories and fight for the town? He knows she won't hesitate to abandon these people if he says no, though she'll feel bad about it. It'll weigh on her, probably more than the soldiers they hunt down. He won't do that to her, but he knows he isn't going to be able to be in the fight for long, not so soon after that breakdown with no time to recover. And when it hits, it's going to be bad.

He says none of this, however, and determinedly nods, marching towards the door with Nott in tow, Frumpkin slipping out through the window to find a perch and keep watch over the room next door that holds Bylaw and the other two women. Nott is quick to reassure him that she lied and told them they'd be staying in their room too, so she doubt's they'll come knocking.

The people cowering in the bottom level of the tavern make him feel much like he's made the right choice, even as Crute halfheartedly protests them opening the barrier they've created, but at the sight of Caleb's crackling hands and Nott's crossbow, he gives in with an exasperated sigh, mumbling all the while about fool humans and their constant need to throw themselves into danger. He doesn't mention the goblin, and Nott doesn't kick him for insulting Caleb. Progress.

Outside, once the door has been all but sealed shut and the dwarf's angry grumbling has been cut off, Caleb takes a glance at Frumpkin on the window ledge and nods in thanks that the familiar can undoubtedly feel anyway. Smoke rises above the buildings in a way he really wishes wasn't familiar, and a few unlucky people come hurtling down the road only to be shot in the back by a gnoll following them. Before Caleb can raise his hands, Nott takes aim and fires, the bolt going through the creatures heart and causing the corpse to collapse, leaving the street in relative silence, the only sound being the enraged shouts of battle towards where the gnoll had come from.

He pointedly doesn't glance at the unlucky bastards lying at his feet, and takes off, lagging behind Nott only somewhat.

A few buildings they pass are up in flame or well on their way to doing so, though if there are people in there, he can't see and Nott doesn't flick her ears towards them like she would if she heard anything, so he pushes it out of his mind, focusing intently on the battle ahead.

The square itself is a mess of bodies and debris, the few remaining guards either fighting off gnolls or helping herd the people out of the village and away from the place they'd probably attacked from, as if it'd do them any good. Shakily, Caleb thinks about that foreboding feeling in his gut, and allows himself to poke at it. Now, it's a tugging, almost a pull towards the last main road. Whatever is down there is something important, clearly, but as he watches a mountain of a woman cleave a gnoll in half with a great sword, he feels much like it can wait.

With hands crackling with flame, he sends out an abrupt, scorching hot ball of flame that sets alight a gnoll half the size of Jester, who waves excitedly over her shoulder despite the puzzlement on her face at his change in demeanor before slamming her mace into the skull of another gnoll, once, twice, three times before it goes down, covering her in spatters of blood she makes a face at. Alright then.

Nott is a flurry of movement, targeting one feline monster, then another, then another, dragging their attention to her and away from the adversaries they face just long enough for whoever it is to get a good strike in and take the heat right back off Nott. Carefully, still throwing somewhat weaker bolts of flame at the gnolls attempting and failing to gang up on the uncomfortably tall woman, he lifts her up at a lull in her firing and gets her onto higher ground, a barrel that she leaves to scramble onto a lower hanging roof, allowing her a better view and giving her access to the targets farther away. With a laugh, she takes aim again and nails one through the eye, getting a gruff “thanks” from an...orc? Half-orc? He can't tell in the unnatural light, and isn't entirely focused on it either.

A woman, caked in blood and clutching a wound on her stomach stumbles away from a gnoll and down the road the tugging pulls him towards. No one sees her but Caleb, and he has to curse the fates, then, for pushing him towards the feeling he really doesn't want to follow, let alone leave Nott behind to watch her own flank. She can take care of herself, but there's always the fear that the moment he turns his back and relaxes she'll be gone just like Mama, just like Tirich. The choking atmosphere of smoke, blood and the strange screaming of the gnolls does nothing to calm the panic building and building in his chest, a rising tide ready to break the measly dam held together thinly by the adrenaline.

He goes anyway, cursing his own morals along the way, eyes darting to and fro until he spots a blood trail and hears the ugly panting of the gnoll in an alley. By the stench, he knows she's already dead. It's like molten lava in his stomach, but he can at least reassure himself with the knowledge that she would have died anyway, with so much blood loss, with such a deep wound. Better to die quickly than to die slowly and in agony the entire time, knowing you can't be saved and that no one can do anything more for you.

It doesn't stop him from drawing out the death of the creature, gagging once it's charred corpse falls to the dirt, burnt flesh, fur, blood and ash making his eyes water, and not just because of how strong the smell is.

At the gnolls feet lays the woman, the creatures claws having ripped right through her throat, teeth indentations on her stomach telling him it fully intended to eat her right then and there before he'd killed it. Her eyes stare blankly into the sky, blood sluggishly leaking from her mouth, chest still. She looks, faintly, like one of his aunts.

And he loses it.

The pressure in his chest is terrifying in its intensity, in the way it feels like a battering ram against his ribcage. The panic replaces the battle tactics and he stops thinking clearly altogether, body sliding down into the gore covered ground, ruining his pants, not that he notices. The walls seem to loom and close in on him.

His body shakes violently enough for his legs to slide forward until they come in contact with the woman's arm, barely feeling the rapidly cooling skin through the worn leather on his feet. His teeth would clatter together if he wasn't sobbing, ears catching every shout of rage and pain and screech of the gnolls from the square, heightened in a way that's just as overwhelming. He can't hear his own gross sniffling but he can taste the salt on his lips and the mucus running down his throat, he's long since past caring about composure or throwing on a persona. He still hears Nott shouting out warnings, Jester laughing and cheering when her companions do something she approves of, what sounds like Beau just screaming and cursing incoherently and whoever the half-orc/orc is yelling at her to be quiet for a moment, something about ‘Molly’, a question that gets an answer he's already tuned out.

Someone croons low and soft beside him and urges his head between his legs, warm clawed fingers running through his hair just like Tirich used to do, soothing little motions from a tail winding around his legs.

His eyes are hazy and wet with tears still, but clear enough for him to see purple skin, uncommon among tieflings, and sharp, pretty features. Whoever it is knows what they're doing, because though they smile at him so lovingly that it hurts with red eyes that show nothing and an expression that screams adoration, reverence that he knows well, knows because it would stare back at him in Tirich's eyes, they still urge his head back between his legs, murmuring soothingly to him in the blessed words of Zemnian and common that he understands, that makes sense.

“Oh my lovely what has happened to you...hush now, that's it, breathe with me, pretty, you're doing so good, keep going.” They say, and the first part is confusing, but doesn't register in his mind even as his brain tells him it's important. The panic is subsiding enough for him to push himself against the warmth, quieting even more in the way the not-quite-a-stranger doesn't even hesitate to gather him close and begin rubbing his neck steadily. The alley is unnaturally dark, pressing in at all sides far unlike the way the walls seemed to close in on him earlier, and he settles even more, exhaustion covering his mind in a way that doesn't feel quite right, his brain struggling only long enough for him to feel the tieflings arms lock around him comfortingly and protective all at once. He slips back into the oblivion of sleep, a weak presence he can barely even detect nowadays keeping dreams away with a bit of concentration, and making sure his groggy mind doesn't quite pick up on the conversations around him.

At the mouth of the alley, the tall woman frowns, glancing from the corpses to the tiefling and then finally settling on the unconscious form of Caleb, slumped comfortably in the embrace.

“That's…”

“It's him, Yasha. Caleb, my champion, oh, gods…what's happened to him?”

“I don't know, Mollymauk, and you couldn't have known while it happened. Don't put the blame on yourself.”

At this, Mollymauk laughs, a bitter, ugly thing, so unsuited to his achingly pretty form.

“If not my fault, then who's? Am I not the one who abandoned him for more than ten years? Am I not the one who went and died, even despite all my promises? He's filthy, Yasha. Burns, bruises and scars both on his body and in his mind. You didn't know him when he was younger, this...this isn't Caleb. But I guess it is, now. That Caleb died with me. There's no one else to blame but me.”

“Would he want that? For you to blame yourself?”

“Well, that's just the thing, isn't it? I don't know what this Caleb would want. I don't know this Caleb at all. And I'm terrified I never will. To be reunited with him again, only for him to be taken away...it will either kill me, or everyone around me. You weren't there when I lost him the first time. I can only imagine how much worse it'll be if it happens again.” He says, and it's not a threat.

It's a promise, and one he most certainly won't be breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laughs in dramatic irony over the song lyrics*
> 
> Didn't think they'd fit so well but I guess that's the running theme song for these two now.
> 
> And yay, Molly! Less yay for Caleb!! I'd like to note here and now that if you think Caleb is different, Molly is uhhhh a new character entirely then. Of course he still is MOLLY but he's definitely not as casual and easy as you please. Surprisingly, Caleb is probably a bigger liar than him at this point. 
> 
> Also can d&d fight me I only found one spell like Disguise Self for disguising others and it was a 5th? Level? Spell? Excuse me??? Why is Disguise Other not a thing what the FU
> 
> anyway. idk if y'all can tell but i. really like tieflings. And I'm 100% invested in tieflings having cat characteristics you can pry that from my cold dead hands. All aboard Caleb having two cats :^)


	5. Bubble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am! Very tired, so if there are glaring mistakes I am SO SORRY I didn't catch them, it's 4 am and I'm pushing myself to wrap up a chapter that was originally going to go on for about 5 to 8 thousand more words, which is!! A lot for me, and I didn't want to take too long to get it out, so, I'm breaking it up, sorry. Once I get some sleep I'll check this over for mistakes (I do not have someone doing so for me) and then get to working on the second part immediately afterwards. Hope you enjoy, lovelies!

(-You bring the light, I'll make it dark, you bring the fuel, I'll bring the spark, I guess it's your move but I'm watching you-)

There had been a time, weeks or months or years, Caleb does not know, time has little meaning to him outside of seconds and minutes and hours, now, but there had been a time, an indeterminate amount of time ago that he had fallen sick.

He was nauseous first and nothing else, the first day--hour? Week?--and on the second day it went from “mild sickness” to “possible plague”, in Nott's words anyway.

Feverish hallucinations, skin running so hot his magic danced across his body and just made it worse, visions of his mother burning and dying over and over again, Aunt Johanna's burned and peeling corpse leaning over his prone body and pressing her cracked and charred mouth to his ear.

“You should have saved us.”

Tirich a blessed relief with soft lips against his forehead and strange alien purring like the cat the neighbors owned that got into the house through the kitchen sometimes, clawed fingers tangling in his sweat slicked hair and making him feel clean with his very presence, divinity and worship and love singing in his veins.

“Das Nichts von vor!” A mantra in his head, screaming, nightmares. Flashes of things he can't look at without his eyes hurting, a name that makes his tongue feel like lead, insects crawling over his skin and into his mouth and ears and up his nose until he's suffocating. And then nothing again.

The cycle repeated.

He woke up perfectly fine one day to Nott soot stained and dry sobbing from tears long gone, eyes burning with the effort and throat scratched like she'd swallowed glass.

Four days of hallucinating and burning, his magic out of control until a single spark turned into a bonfire that left her singed but fine. She had thought he'd died, and had resorted to desperate prayer. She said it was one of their stupid miracles finally taking hold, something they deserved and she just had to figure out which God it was so they could thank them.

She didn't understand why the thought of communing with a God made his face turn pale, why Caleb felt like going right back into those precious days of seeing Tirich again. She didn't understand the wrongness of foreign devotion, of speaking with a higher being that would always take one look at him and expect adoration no matter the one he was already ordained to. It didn't matter to the Gods so wreathed in light with their golden city and temples and acceptance and SAFETY. Their brothers and sisters less in power but no less beautiful were slaughtered and thrown into the Nothing, whatever existed for dead gods that not even Tirich had command over, or so he assumed, and they did nothing but lord over the masses like they ever did anything for those who didn’t devote their life to them.

It was the first time he had ever spoke of Tirich aloud since the massacre, because that's what it was and there was no running from the past, the lives the Empire had taken from him. Nott couldn't be the one to not understand, to not KNOW. It was important, deathly important that his motivation, his reason understood a fundamental part of him. And she had.

She angrily smacked his knee until he bent down so she could reach his cheeks, tear trails wiping away soot and dust, a metaphorical cleanse, talons careful not to cut into the skin as she rid his face of the grime and evidence of pain.

She said, “Alright then. Tirich is it for me too then. You'll just have to teach me.” Just like that, and Caleb isn't ashamed to say he cried even harder then, finally tumbling to his knees to pull her against his chest, cradling her like she were porcelain in danger of cracking.

The fever though, had left its mark. His magic was volatile for a long while afterwards, fire bursting forth from his fingertips at odd intervals, lightning crackling up his spine and waking to soft sprinkles of ice skating its way up his skin and sparkling on his eyelashes, all but freezing poor Frumpkin solid.

Waking up, finally, with the windows shuttered and nothing but darkness clouding his vision save for a single candle on the nightstand is strangely similar in its frightening unfamiliarity, the knowledge that he isn't the one in control anymore.

A thin blanket rests over his body, the pillow beneath his head nearly as ratty as the sheets themselves, stained a dirty brown and, oddly enough, smelling strongly of lavender.

His skin feels alight in a way he hasn't felt in a very long time, like thousands of eyes resting on him, giving him their sole attention, and an alien magic pulses over his body. It tastes like cake and blueberries on his tongue, and the unfamiliar hint of clerical divinity, a God he can't even sense. He doesn't recognize the being it belongs to, and that alone is what makes him attempt to push his magic to the surface.

But he can't.

There is no flame or electricity, not even the rarely used frost. A blockade keeps his magic from him, and the all TOO familiar spike of fear jolts down his body just like the magic he can't reach. He's defenseless, his memories of the time before waking hazy at best. Someone speaking to him in a low croon, a firm chest, lavender, lavender, wood and the smell of a storm on the horizon, fire and ash and blood before that and then nothing at all but static and then...now.

The door at the far end of the room creaks open wide enough to let in light from a window in the hall, illuminating a small patch of the room with sunlight, before abruptly closing.

A tiefling.

She...no, he, maybe, is covered in scars, one line interlacing with another. His ram horns are adorned with silver and gold jewelry, his mismatched jacket lifting occasionally with his tail that flicks with agitation. His pretty, curved mouth so seemingly fit for smirking curls downwards, displeased, until he inclines his head and those ruby red, nearly unnerving eyes seem to find purchase on him.

All at once, it feels like the shadows suck the very air out of the room, and it leaves him flustered and uncomfortably warm. Familiar. So achingly familiar. He dare not hope, but...maybe this tiefling is connected to Tirich. A follower. A remnant, somehow finding his way to Caleb. The desperation for it to be true claws up his throat, but he won't speak it, won't ask.

The last thing Caleb needs is to let out a secret and be burned at the stake for it.

“You're awake then, I'm glad. You gave us quite the scare, Mr.Caleb. Your goblin friend, before you ask, is downstairs drinking Crute out of home and tavern while Jester attempts to fit tiny mittens over your cats feet.” He speaks, and another, different note of familiarity tingles in his spine, far more clear than the...other issue.

“You were...talking to me. Sometime. I don't...know when. Something...happened? A fight, maybe. I was in a bad place, and then you…” He trails off.

At this, the tiefling flashes him a charming smile he can't quite believe is real, fangs on display but not in a threatening manner, almost playful, maybe. His head hurts too much to observe rapid fire every mannerism this new quantity has.

“You remember my voice? Well, you certainly know how to make a gal feel special! Or fella, whatever strikes your fancy. I don't mind. Never ‘you damn demon’ though, always tends to make the others mad, can't imagine why.” He rumbles, like a purr trying to catch in his throat. It's a lot like when Frumpkin tries to meow through a bone deep purr and just mangles it entirely. The thought relaxes him, somewhat. He has to wonder if it's rude to compare tieflings to cats, and then finds he can't quite bring himself to ask, let alone care.

The other hasn't given him a name.

“You know my name, and Nott, and Frumpkin. But I do not know you.” Caleb whispers, soft, owlish eyes blinking up into the face of a man he feels like he should know but he can't quite tell why.

For just a split second, something else crosses his face, and is gone so quickly Caleb can't be sure he even saw it.

“No, I suppose you don't know me, do you? Mollymauk Tealeaf, at your service, dearest. Tarot card reader, exotic tiefling from the east, occasional alcoholic if I'm in the mood. And you, my sweet, are shivering, and I do imagine it's not because of my beauty and scintillating conversation. Are you alright?”

Mollymauk Tealeaf. MT. Empty. Whoever his parents are must have a rather miserable sense of humor, though he's hardly one to talk, is he?

And, oh, he is shaking. Fear, he thinks, dimly. Distant. He isn't all there, yet.

“Oh, yes, I am...fine. Or I will be. I can't feel my magic, and that's...why?”

“What? Oh, Jester, you bloody--! No, no, that's fine...You were having nightmares, dear, thrashing and all that. You started catching fire, and this place is rather...flammable, if you'll notice. Little more of that and we'd go up like parchment. Jester, I believe you met her as Darren, interesting name choice by the by, she's a cleric, she blocked your magic pathways or...however that bit works. Once you're good and proper ready to go downstairs, I'll mak--ah. Ask her to remove the block.”

Smooth voice, stumbling over words, forceful personality like he's used to getting his way, trying to hide it?

Another painful pulse in his head and he winces. No time to focus on a strangers problems or secrets, no matter how familiar. And oh, is the way he speaks to Caleb familiar. He clearly cares little for polite, impersonal sorts of manners. It's both unnerving and warm all at once. A strange combination to be sure.

“Right. I...need to see Nott. And get it removed. Please.” He asks, quietly, careful to raise to his feet slowly, flinching slightly at the brush of a hand along his right shoulder that snaps back as if burned. At least he knows that's not true, without his magic. It's not a nice thought.

“No, I suppose you don't like to be touched, hm. I should warn you,” Mollymauk starts, making Caleb tense, “The others did see Yasha and I bring you here unconscious, though I did not say anything as to why and Nott was adamant that she not say a word about you or herself aside from your true names until you were awake. Fjord is...tense, as is Beau, though when is she not, really...Jester seems mostly pleased to have a cat around, though. Yasha is as quiet and mysterious as always. Those are all the ones you need worry about, dear, and if Fjord loses those charming sailor manners I'll make sure it isn't the only thing he loses, yes? Beau isn't so suspicious as to do anything untoward, but, we never know. Yasha and I haven't been with them that long, anyway.”

There's something in the way his tone sharpens that makes Caleb's shoulders sag with relief. Whatever he did that he can't quite remember, it must have been a miracle, or a very spectacular lie. Mollymauk is an ally, for now.

“That's fine, then...I'd like to go down now.”

At this, Mollymauk smiles, all candy sweet and gentle and so achingly warm for no discernible reason.

“Alright. Let's face the music then, shall we?”

~°~

The first few steps are agony on his pounding head and aching muscles, but Mollymauk is quick to offer an arm and his touch soothes, strangely, a phantom sensation of something slick with a copper edge to it ghosting across his joints in what feels like an invasion, but one he can't rightly be displeased with, not as it chases away the pain.

Blood magic.

It's not outright illegal, usually, because self sacrifice can't very well be outlawed, but murder is always murder, and Caleb would certainly know. Yet he sees no other body for the tiefling to draw from. It's a welcome magic, all the same, then, even as it lingers like it doesn't wish to part from the marrow of his bones and the blood running through his veins. With a shake of his wrist, it's gone, and Mollymauk’s hand loses its pressure against his back that he hadn't even noticed.

Unsettling, to say the least. But he's always loved a good mystery, or perhaps he's simply too curious for his own good. Time will tell, he supposes, and misses the way the shadows along the unilluminated walls swirl for just a moment in unease.

The stairs creak in an ominous sort of way beneath their feet as they make their way down, Mollymauk careful to keep Caleb near the railing in case of a sudden fall, and below he can hear the sounds of soft conversation drift up to them, even over his panting. His lungs still burn unpleasantly, but it's a familiarity too, at the very least, and though his gaze goes dark at the edges when he shifts his head too much, all in all he isn't too bad off. He worries for Nott and her much smaller body, but goblins are notoriously hardy. How far that extends will be nice to know either way, and now’s as good a time as ever to find out.

It's obvious who is who once they reach the ground floor and see the small huddled group towards the back of the tavern, voices low or outright non-existent. Nott studiously stares into her cup and glares anytime the monk--Beau, he thinks--gets a little too loud in her conversation with the--what he can guess anyway--half-orc. Both look to be ready to heft their weapons up and start a bar fight right then and there, Beau fingering the staff slung carelessly across her back and who he assumes is Fjord glancing over at Nott with open suspicion, enough to make his stomach tug with a righteous fury, this time merely a spark. The goblin does not lower her head in shame like she would were it any old peasant spitting at her. Instead, the way she bristles like a wet Frumpkin implies violence to be at hand. Yasha is just barely visible at the edges of the light, clearly uninterested in getting between the three, and in the middle of it all, Jester, squatting down and trailing a raven feather across the table for Frumpkin to playfully smack at as it dances like field mice in front of him, her attention entirely off the debacle clearly about to take place, undoubtedly ending with nothing but a bigger headache for him, injuries for everyone else, and a stiff kick in the ass out the door from Crute, which would be well deserved, really. They've done enough.

At his side, Mollymauk's velvet rich lips part in a scowl, a rather feral sort of expression on a face softened by happiness and a lavish lifestyle. He can see the minute details of tiny scars along his nearly, just about flawless skin, set deep into the tissue as if hidden on purpose, as if he were ashamed. Caleb finds that he can't quite put “shame” and “Mollymauk” in the same sentence structure without it crumbling around his ears.

“I'm gone for ten minutes and you're at it like pit dogs, does Yasha need to put the two of you into separate time-out corners?” The tiefling asks once they've hobbled their way to the edge of the bar, his arm tight and warm around Caleb's waist, mindlessly taking nearly all of his weight without so much as a pant of fatigue. His strength is nearly frightening, but with his connection to the Darkness, Caleb supposes he shouldn't underestimate the other. No good could come of it, and his little friends would do well to learn that lesson quickly lest they step into something they'll regret. Blood magic is a very hard practice to learn and control, let alone master, and while he doesn't know the level of Mollymauk’s skill, he does know that the tiefling carries himself like a hunter, a big cat searching for its prey no matter where he slinks to, even with Caleb pressed against his side, injured and all. That's not something that comes about after only a week of researching blood magic and combat. Whoever or whatever Mollymauk is, he isn't to be downplayed.

Finding himself supported by such a man is a bit exciting, though, he must admit. Especially such a pretty one. Not that he'd ever do anything about it, but still. He has his fantasies, if nothing else.

At his voice, Beau jumps, tensing up and fingers quick to wrap around the staff, nearly whacking Fjord in the face with it as she pivots on her heel to face them, never minding the half-orcs grunt of resentment at her dismissive attitude.

Mollymauk doesn't so much as flinch, eyes narrowing in the face of her audacity, perhaps. A noble, maybe? Unlikely due to being a tiefling, however. He dresses more like a distinguished bard, but Caleb never focuses on those that are famous in the arts, only the military and political figures, those that he can target for the information he needs. If Mollymauk is someone he should very well recognize, it isn't clicking.

“Great, he's awake, finally, we can get some damn answers.” She curses, hand lingering on her weapon despite the confirmation that no, there isn't an enemy threatening her. Caleb has to wonder if it's him she's so worried about, or Mollymauk.

“Oh, he is! That is very good, we were worried! Oh, and hold on, let me just remove my spell…” Jester beams once she takes her attention away from a disgruntled Frumpkin, soft light radiating from her hands before all at once that invasive foreign magic is gone, rushing his body with his own mana and allowing him a strange sort of relief, slumping against the steady support of Mollymauk's body for a brief moment to grow accustomed to being armed again, in a way. It soothes his nerves so much so that he figures it is probably not very healthy to rely on something dangerous. Only for a moment, though.

“You said we'd be getting that information now, little lady.” Fjord says, eyes flickering from Nott to Caleb where he's settled against a table, arms crossed almost defensively.

“Yeah, I know what I said, keep your pants on,” Nott starts, then hops off the stool to get to Caleb, “You doing better, now? The living garden didn't scare you when you woke up?”

Caleb somewhat assumes Mollymauk will take offense, but the unexpected fondness on his face as he snorts at the jab is a welcome surprise. By the impatient way the others--save for Jester--shuffle and huff, the sentiment probably isn't the same. Well, one ally is always better than none. The tiefling is...not so bad, perhaps. The fastest way to Caleb's heart is apparently through Nott.

“Ah, ja, I am...better. Have you seen Bylaw and the others yet?”

“No, thankfully, not that they'd recognize me. Maybe you should...you know?”

Caleb snorts at her very unsubtle finger wiggling, her only way of indicating magic for the most part, and softly mutters a few words under his breath to change her back to Maera, pointedly ignoring the slight hiss that leaves Beau's lips at the sudden magic. Very touchy people. He supposes lying to her on their first meeting didn't leave the best impression, but it hardly matters to him anyway. Perhaps he wouldn't mind sticking with Mollymauk, not when he has those unanswered questions and nagging feeling that it's what he needs to do, but the others? Fjord, who looks a second away from getting out the shackles himself? Beau, who looks as if she'll gut them if they so much as move a step backwards? Yasha, who looms unnecessarily in the dark and looks as if she can crush Nott with her fist? Or even Jester, who seems so innocent but is capable of bashing the skull in of her enemy without remorse? He sees no benefit being among them. Only fostered distrust and inevitable hatred. Or worse, a one way trip back to a deep, dank dungeon, locked away because some fucking half-orc didn't quite like the way a goblin talked to him.

“So that's what's with that getup. Do you play pretend like that often or is there a reason you're hiding your identity?” Fjord asks, tone sharp, eyes shrewd, seeking out and prodding at secrets Caleb finds to be absolutely none of his business.

Simultaneously, Caleb and Nott bristle, the goblin because of the accusing tone and Caleb because of immediate defense mechanisms. He doesn't like being interrogated, and Nott dislikes anyone being pushy and invasive to Caleb even more. It's a cycle of push and shove the wizard can tell will be coming if he doesn't get his temper in check, and soon, but it's so very hard to push away the slimy phantom hands of soldiers gripping his hair, hitting his face and pushing his head underwater to get him to break, to spill all his secrets about a God they so happily killed. Secrets he hadn't grown old enough to even learn.

Something bloody and burned, deep in his chest hates Fjord, and it desperately wants him to show it. Set him ablaze and show him the wrath of a man who's lost everything, show him what the Empire will soon learn to fear.

Mollymauk's hand is warm against his back, tail winding around and around his leg like Frumpkin when he begs for scraps, attentive but not forceful.

Caleb relaxes, and the fire recedes.

“You are not a soldier come to grab my secrets in any way possible, nor a man I trust in any capacity. The reason either of us do the things we do is simply none of your business, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't push from there. All you need know is that I am Caleb Widogast, and this is Nott. We were briefly traveling with a nomadic family, but will part ways here, I imagine.” He states, blandly, voice as blank as a fresh piece of parchment, and that same part of him that aches for righteous vengeance takes delight in the frustration that crosses Fjord's face, the outright anger on Beau's. Jester seems more interested in the illusion covering Nott than the conversation itself, for which he feels somewhat grateful. He can't get a read on Yasha, which makes his fingers twitch once and awhile, not particularly noticeable at least, and Mollymauk…Mollymauk doesn't seem interested in Caleb's reasons, or, lack thereof. Instead, his steady, unnerving gaze rests on Fjord. There's a very unsubtle power play in the group dynamic, that much is clear. Fjord is the leader, and Beau and Jester seem to accept this. Mollymauk does not, and it looks very much like he's on the edge of doing something about it. Considering that hint the tiefling dropped earlier about being with Yasha specifically, he has a good idea of which side she'll be on if it does happen. Part of him, that blasted curiosity, wants to watch it play out, see them come to blows. Fjord fills out just as well as any half-orc, defined muscles and scars that speak of intense battles, a stance that says his guard is up and rarely does that change. In contrast, Mollymauk looks like he's been in multiple assassination attempts, going by those strangely fascinating scars on his neck, but intuition says otherwise. They look self-inflicted, definitely relating to the blood magic. He has to wonder just what this intriguing man does that requires so much blood, and then thinks better of it. There's very little good such blood rituals can do when they need that kind of life force. That's the kind of ritual that kills more than a few people. That's the kind of ritual you need sacrifices for.

But Caleb can't very well make that assumption and spit on him, not after what he's done, what he's still going to do, what's he going to enjoy DOING. How can a murderer be the judge and jury of another murderer?

Still. Just how powerful is Mollymauk? Could Fjord even hope to compete? Something primal, animal instinct deep in his gut, says that going after Mollymauk is a suicidal plan, like throwing yourself into the maw of a dragon just as she starts to let loose a stream of fire. A seasoned warrior against a self sacrificial blood mage is interesting. But a seasoned warrior against a blood mage who's done far more than a simple animal sacrifice? A blood mage with powers unknown? That's something Caleb would pay to see. From, preferably, very far away.

“Darren?”

Caleb nearly doesn't respond, not until Mollymauk's tail prods carefully at the skin under his pant leg, jolting him from his thoughts and interrupting the steadily heating hissed argument between Nott and Beau. The latter glances at Fjord, while the former carefully pushes herself closer to Caleb in an attempt to appear far more child-like than she actually is.

At the bottom of the stairs and steadily making her way closer is Yelena, Esha still nattering on about something behind her, absolutely fuming while Bylaw tries more and more to simply shrink into his ratty coat, scraggly, unkempt hair falling over his eyes as the two most important women in his life rush to Caleb's side. Crute, from behind the bar, clearly hearing every word of the arguments, snorts, and gives Caleb a look full of pity before turning right around and merely pretending to mind his own business. He has to respect that, at least. No one suspects the dwarf of subterfuge.

“Yelena, Esha, ah, Bylaw. ‘M glad you three are well, after las’ nights shit show.” He grumbles, voice switching so fast from his usual speech to fake accent that even Jester stumbles a little.

Beside him, Mollymauk frowns.

“Pa, bad word.” Nott says, voice changing to be a little less shrill and a little more feminine, just in the way she hates during their pickpocket routines.

“You'll be learnin’ ‘em eventually, girlie. Might as well be now.” He snorts, pretending to tug on her curls to mask the illusion. At that, she huffs an indignant curse, and Esha seems to settle down, face switching as if she can't decide on whether she should pull Caleb into a hug or chide him for encouraging his supposed daughter to be so brash.

Yelena has none of that hesitation, and all but yanks Caleb down to her level to bury her face into his slightly singed coat, body shaking just somewhat, hair smelling of ash and forest and home, a little. A pang of homesickness rises in his chest again, but he keeps it down, eyes closing and arms circling the girls waist for just a moment, indulging the way she seems so much like family. Then, he pulls away, as is appropriate, patting her head like one would a child just in case Bylaw gets that protective crease in his brow or Esha starts getting ideas. Or maybe the other way around, actually.

Nott has taken to pushing herself behind him, but is pliant enough to wave shyly at them and smile a little, enough to get a soft look from Esha that speaks of her own motherhood and fond memories of little Yelena. He kind of wishes he could be what they think he is. Life would certainly be easier.

“Heard tha screamin’ through the walls last night, ya know. Awful noises, but that lil cat o’ yours crept in through the crack in the window and kept Yelena settled. Might just get a dog soon, cats wander too much for our life but it might work all the same.” Bylaw says, friendly just as usual, but Caleb is perceptive and he can see the wary way he takes in the strangers that look aggressive even on the outside. Esha certainly notices it too, but she's not as restrained as her husband, going by the way she marches right up to Caleb's side and bustles them away from the group, giving Mollymauk a considering look until he smiles so charmingly at her that even Caleb feels a little bit warm from it. Esha just snorts inelegantly and pushes him on with them. The look of slight surprise on the so very collected tieflings face is nearly cause for celebration. It seems he isn't entirely infallible after all, then.

Jester looks just about ready to bounce her way along with them, but Fjord stops that with a stern look. They clearly aren't going far. Caleb tries not to let his hackles raise when he notices that Yasha is no longer where she was, and he can't spot her any longer.

“Ain't the friendliest lot, are they? Hope they ain't botherin’ y'all.” Bylaw murmurs once they're out of earshot, all six of them settling around a surprisingly unoccupied table. His hand runs over the uneven stubble along his jaw, clearly having cut it just that morning, if the still red, raised cuts are any indication, while Esha eyes the patches still dotting his skin with disdain and Yelena watches Mollymauk with wide, curious eyes.

“You one o’ them demon folk? Ain't ever heard of blue or purple ones, thought they was all red!” She exclaims, voice excited, alight with wonder. Certainly, he can see why Mollymauk would be a surprise were he your first tiefling encounter, especially after all the swirling rumors of evil baby snatching, virgin sacrificing tieflings that drink the blood of married men and eat the organs of little children who misbehave. The family doesn't seem even slightly alarmed, however, and he finds himself relaxing into his chair because of it, a disguised Nott warm at his side, her feet kicking the legs of her chair every few seconds.

“Mm, purple tieflings aren't the most common, but blue isn't too rare. Red is definitely most prevalent, however. Though, perhaps I'm just unique?” He hums, face resting in the palm of his hand as he catches Yelena's eye, a grin on his lips. Even when just sitting, he paints a pretty picture.

If Caleb were to roll his eyes, they'd probably get lost in the back of his skull.

“Ain't wanting to make this chat short, though mind you I think Yelena's had her fill of handsome men on this adventure, but we best be setting off now that the roads are relatively clear, and we just wanted ta make sure you were either comin’ or stayin’, Darren. Yer welcome to join us, o’ course.” Esha cuts in, hands fiddling with the light blue ribbon keeping her hair in a tight bun, grey streaks just somewhat visible. She wears her age well, Caleb thinks, fondly observing the way she doesn't try to hide it but instead wears her slouch and wrinkles with pride.

“I can't be taggin’ along and makin’ it harder on y'all, now, ma'am, and I don't think the road lifestyle suits my girl too much.” He declines, carefully. It hurts to admit that a small part of himself yearns to accept and leave his unanswered questions behind, take Nott and just take off, but…

Mollymauk sits in a sort of sprawl like a prince upon his throne, eyes taking in his kingdom before him and tail twitching lightly against Caleb's ankle where it seems to constantly migrate. He's so very still, you'd think him a corpse if not for the barely noticeable rise and fall of his chest. A predator waiting for an opportunity, he thinks, and shivers. It's not from the cold.

Whoever, whatever Mollymauk is, Caleb must find out. If there's even the smallest hope of there being another like him that he himself did not inaugurate, he must grab it and never let go.

“Oh, really? Well that's a damn shame, but I do hope we meet again, Darren, lil' lady. It was a true pleasure.” Bylaw says, softly, a warm smile painting itself across his lips, lighting up his face and taking off nearly ten years of age. He was handsome as a lad, he can tell. Perhaps, in a way, that hasn't entirely changed.

Caleb can't bring himself to decline the hug Yelena gives him by toppling over her own shoes in her rush to say goodbye to him properly, not when her eyes get just a little misty and her grin is all for him.

“Remember the list, okay? Take care of yourself, Darren. It gets better.” She whispers into his tangled hair, and if there's just a little bit more of a shine to his own eyes when she finally manages to pull herself away, well, no one will mention it.

And then they're gone.

Neither of his companions speak for a moment, perhaps in contemplation, perhaps out of respect, he does not know. He isn't given time to properly pull himself together at the opportunity to start over that he's let go once more, though, as instead he forces his shoulders back as Fjord takes up what was once Bylaw's chair and Beau and Jester hip check each other to take Esha's, resulting in what would be a comical collapse against each other if he didn't feel much like a bug squeezed between a child's fingers and put on display.

Yasha slinks out of the shadows with Frumpkin settled comfortably in her arms, and Caleb relaxes the muscles straining in his neck.

“Lyin’ to that family then, hm?” Fjord asks, but it's not a question, not really. It's an accusation, just barely concealed in his icy tone.

Mollymauk's tail digs into the leather of his boots, but he says nothing. Caleb has to wonder how long that self restraint shall last.

“I do what I must to get by with Nott. We didn't take a coin from those people other than for the rooms, which they themselves offered. I don't know your life, and I don't care to, so stop trying to know mine.” He spits, fingers clenching and unclenching around a weapon he does not have, soothing the urge to just ice over the mans mouth in response instead. Violence begets violence, but clearly he isn't taking those apparent ‘words of wisdom’ to heart most days. If anything, he just isn't in the mood for a bar fight. Glass and splinters are a bitch to dig out of wounds.

“This isn't getting us anywhere, so Fjord, stop being a paranoid bastard, Beau, get your hand off that damn stick already, and Yasha, please stop looming, we know you're taller than all of us and if we want a height advantage we have to use a chair or table but really, it's unnecessary.”

Mollymauk sounds almost like some sort of exasperated parent, herding his children into behaving lest they get sent to time-out, or worse. Caleb's lip twitches, and the restless tension in his hands calm, just a little. He isn't quite sure he'll ever NOT want to introduce his fire magic to Fjord's cranium, but he can try. The last thing he wants to do is annoy his only ally in the group, anyway. For whatever reason, the tiefling has taken a shine to him, and he isn't above cashing in on that as much as he can. He'll take the time to feel bad about it later, when he doesn't feel like they're in danger of being clapped in irons and taken away.

“Yeah yeah, whatever Molly, we get it, make peace not war.” Beau huffs, taking her hand away from her staff and instead crossing her arms, as if it might intimidate Caleb a little. Maybe, if he wasn't a murderer on a bloody warpath. It's kind of endearing, at the very least.

“Charming and eloquent as ever, that's our Beauregard. Caleb, lovely, how much do you remember from last night?” Mollymauk moves on, switching topics so quickly that all Beau can do is grit her teeth and settle back down. He lazily drags his tail along the wizard's lower back as he talks, a small pressure. A comfort. Nott leaning into his side is a wonder, but the new stability helps.

“Not much. The gnolls, the square, going into an alley after a woman...an attack, and you showing up to help me. Then, nothing till this morning.”

It's the truth, unfortunately. Jester's now cataloged and memorized magic isn't the only unfamiliar trail left behind in his mana, it's just the most visible. Barely there, underneath the earthly tones of his magic, he can see something roil and writhe unnaturally, a hint of something else being there. It doesn't feel harmful, if anything it flows through his mana as if it's supposed to be there and always has, but that isn't to say he can't tell that it doesn't belong to him. Who it belongs to, however, is a question he isn't sure he'll get an answer to. The only thing he can tell it's touched is his recollection of the night of the attack, and the only thing it stopped him from remembering is the panic and crushing memories that had hit him full force in the dark, closed in space. He can't say he doesn't appreciate it. Caleb isn't sure he wants to remember any of it, anyway.

“You didn't miss much. Yasha over there got a bunch of the group and Jester and Nott picked off the ones that finally fled. We didn't get all of bastards, and they did run off with a few townsfolk and bodies, but some soldier boy followed to find their camp and take them out once he came back with reinforcements. If he comes back. Now that we have…’answers’ from you, we're just waiting on that, now.” Beau fills him in, rolling her eyes as she says ‘answers’ in a way that expresses her annoyance, but he doesn't quite care, and it's about time they all learned he never will, either. Their opinions on his actions and need for secrecy do not concern him.

Beside him, Nott wrinkles her nose, illusion still going strong and making Caleb have to push past his own confusion as to why he can't see a goblin when he looks down, over towards her. Perhaps he isn't so bad at illusion spells as he was worried he was.

“It is very sad that they got some of the villagers, I think. It feels like we should go get them back, we're the ones that didn't get all the monsters anyway.” Jester sighs, tail thwacking against the table in agitation, lips downturned in a way that makes even Caleb feel a little guilty, and he wasn't even capable of helping at the time.

“I'm glad you think that, because I'm gonna need some more help.” A new voice joins the fray, immediately forcing Caleb to whip his head around to the elvish looking person making their way towards the ragtag and steadily getting sadder group. Mollymauk is careful to urge Caleb's attention away with gentle strokes of his claws against the white knuckled hand that grips the edge of his chair, but even he can only do so much. There's too many unfamiliar people, too much pressure and tension. He hates the fucking Pit, the constant stench of piss and fear and death that took weeks to leave his nose after finally breaking free, but the isolation it provided, albeit one-sided, is something he yearns for.

“You're the wizard, aren't you? Saw you blasting those sons of bitches before you disappeared, good on you. Hell, if you're up for it, I'll up the pay if you're willing to help,” They say, then pause, “Right, shit, manners. I'm Bryce, Watchmaster of Alfield and currently out of commission, or else I'd be going to that damn mine myself. Hence, the pay.”

Caleb is hesitant to nod or even open his mouth, really. They don't seem like they're being disingenuous, but he isn't even sure what they're talking about at this point, and the press of another coming headache is closing in. Nott steps in, then, taking the attention back to her but not before reaching up to rub at her ears until the illusion sluggishly slides away like mud in the rain. Bryce raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.

“Caleb and I will have to talk it over, but if we're with them and they say yes in a little bit, count us in too.” She states, not seeming to think about the few stares her uncovered appearance attracts. Caleb doesn't let them linger, anyway.

“Alright, fair enough. I'll be at the square for most of the day dealing with the damage once you've decided, but let me know if it's a no too.” Bryce responds, barely sticking around for the murmurs of agreement before all but breaking off into a jog to get back to their job.

Mollymauk doesn't let the silence linger once they're gone, instead slapping his hand abruptly down onto the middle of the table, startling Beau and making Jester whine as she's nearly shoved out of the shared chair by the movement.

“I say we agree. And Caleb and Nott come with us, of course. No point turning down easy money.” He says the last bit facing Caleb, another flicker of aggression crossing his face before being smoothed out when Beau immediately begins to protest. Huh.

Clearly they all feel just as reluctant to agree as Caleb himself does, aside from the obvious ones. Jester looks excited at the prospect of more people, Tirich only knows what Mollymauk is thinking, and Yasha eyes Frumpkin with the look of someone who's just decided they want children. He feels kind of like he's never getting his cat back, and Yasha just traded in Mollymauk for Frumpkin instead.

“No, listen, we don't know what's in the, what, mines, Bryce called it? That was clearly not all of them. Just what could be down there anyway? Probably not just gnolls. They don't need living people, just corpses, but they targeted captives, which means they have a reason other than hunger for the attack. I don't care about your paranoia or moral high horse, I care about survival, and there's a higher chance of, you know, not dying, when we have more people watching our backs.”

It's solid logic, Caleb can't argue. And they need the money. Badly.

“Yeah I'm sure that's the only reason you want ‘lovely Caleb’ with us.” Fjord says dryly just as Jester chimes in with a helpful “I think it will be you watching Caleb's back in this situation!”, and he can't even work up a proper blush before Mollymauk is beaming the fakest smile at them he's ever seen, putting his fangs on display.

“You've caught me, this is all a ploy to steal both Frumpkin, and Caleb's virtue.” Mollymauk agrees amicably, nodding his head like some wizened old monk even as Nott yelps and shakes her fist at the blood mage.

“No stealing Frumpkin!”

“Oh, yes, thank you for defending my honor so gravely, liebling. “ Caleb says, deadpan, and snorts when she shrugs in answer.

“You didn't say no, leave me alone. Anyway, I think it's a good idea, but, are you up for it?” She inquires, biting her lip carefully to avoid cutting into it with her teeth. Her concern is clear, and he smiles warmly at her for her trouble, reaching over to brush her hair out of her face, aware of the irritating attention the group gives them for it.

“I will be fine, Nott Der Mutige. I am in if you are.” He mutters, tone affectionate. He would really rather eat the rats Nott is so fond of raw than be in an enclosed space with both Beau and Fjord for a prolonged period of time, but the money, no matter the amount, is sorely needed, and perhaps he will get the answers he seeks with more contact with Mollymauk, despite the flirty banter. It feels good to be included and welcomed, and he worries he may get spoiled by it if the good luck streak continues.

“This is a terrible idea, we don't even know him.” Beau protests, again, loudly, and for once, and for probably the last time, Caleb agrees.

~°~

They break up into smaller groups to prepare for the trip, Fjord and Beau off to locate the Watchmaster, Yasha to get food and water, Nott and Jester to inquire about weapons, and Caleb and Mollymauk to simply find what they think will be useful at the tucked away shops the group never got around to checking.

Nott raised a bit of a fuss at Mollymauk sliding right up to Caleb's side and hauling him away but in the end relented when it was clear Caleb wasn't going to protest. He feels a bit bad for leaving her to the excitable clerics mercy but really, Mollymauk is the only other one of the group he feels even somewhat comfortable around. It isn't trust, not really, but he doesn't feel like he needs to keep his magic at the ready the entire time, which is a miracle in and of itself.

The dirty streets are still covered in a thin layer of ash and uneven footprints scatter about from fleeing townsfolk, the occasional lost item half buried under the soot popping up where they fell, forgotten by the scared owner, and he has a stray thought to the few that were captured, unable to get away and unable to get the release of death instead of whatever horror awaited them inside the mines. Unconsciously, he speeds up his stride.

Occasionally, there's blood, dried and rapidly changing color, splashed onto the side of buildings or mixed in with the ground, but Mollymauk does not so much as spare a glance or respectful silence. It's very much like he's used to such bloodshed, or lacks the will to care. Even that is dangerous. Perhaps it's best that Caleb be the one to go with him, then. If Mollymauk decides to turn on them, he might just manage to cut Caleb down. Never minding his own, other ulterior motive, he can't continue to let his guard down just because the tiefling is kind. Kindness does not equal truthfulness, or trust, he could still very well be hiding something treacherous.

“You are very quiet, more so than I thought you'd be.”

Caleb doesn't jump, but it's a near thing, and by Mollymauk's apologetic grin, he had caught the annoying slip up.

“Ah, well...I am not one for conversation, much, I apologize if I am boring.” He says, hunching up his shoulders a bit in a shrug, and out of a sudden bout of insecurity. His self esteem is in tatters, he's self aware enough to admit it, it's hardly a surprising knee-jerk response, but another strange emotion flashes across the blood mage's face at the movement, guilt, maybe. Curious. He wears his heart on his sleeve, Caleb thinks, but then, so does he, when the situation calls for a certain reaction. It is not hard to fake, but it is hard to not find it believable, in this case.

“No, no, that's not what I meant! It's just that when you're quiet you become rather invisible and a little hard to track but that's not necessarily a bad thing, not being able to...see you...I'm making it worse, aren't I?”

“You know, for someone who seems so charming, you are very good at putting your foot in your mouth.” He muses, amused despite his misgivings. It's not the worst thing someone's ever said to him. If anything, on that scale, it's downright pleasant.

“It's a talent of mine, darling, can't you tell?” Mollymauk asks, flashing him another toothy smile while expertly weaving through the still thinned mass of bodies. Few people are out on the street, and even fewer dare raise their heads in their grief.

“I imagine a man like you has many talents, most of which I do not wish to know about.”

“Is that a joke, my dear? Ich bin überrascht!”

Caleb trips and nearly brains himself on the edge of an unoccupied market stall.

“Shit, okay, no using Zemnian, got it!” The tiefling squawks, nearly yanking the wizard and a few of the rushing townsfolk fruitfully ignoring them off their feet to steady him, pulling him so close that he can smell the lavender oil that coats his skin and the smell of rippling magic in his veins, singing their siren song to his own unnatural mana. Simultaneously, they both pause with two very different shades of concern, for just a moment, and in that moment, as Mollymauk titters with guilt and checks him over for cuts, he thinks...he thinks that he, perhaps, does not feel a pulse. No heartbeat.

And then it's there, as if pulled to the surface by the thought, and as the other pulls away reluctantly, he feels much like he missed something very important. But what is there to say, to ask about that?

‘Yesterday, I didn't feel your heart beat for more than ten seconds.’

Sure, that'd go over well.

“You speak Zemnian?” He asks instead, desperate to shut his mind up for once on it's stupid speculations and theories.

Mollymauk nods, no sign of hesitance, clawed fingers lifting up to his horns to untangle the dangling jewelry, tugging this way and that so hard that even Caleb winces in sympathy. A strange part of himself feels a sharp need to reach over and do it himself.

“I do. Obviously, I also speak Infernal, and a few others. Mostly I just use Common. Easier that way, in the circus. None of them but Yasha spoke the languages I spoke other than Common, so there was no point, even when she was around because so too were the others. Your accent is Zemnian. Do you hail from here?”

At this, Caleb pauses.

“I do.” He says, and presses his lips together into a thin line, shouldering past the tiefling carefully to avoid the rest of what will come from such prodding. He's had one too many attacks in just a few days, and the thought of another, this time in broad daylight with other people watching makes his skin crawl unpleasantly, like thousands of spiders under his flesh.

It takes a few seconds for the clicking of heels to continue behind him.

The rest of their little shopping trip is spent in silence.

~°~

Returning to the tavern only an hour after leaving is a boring affair, but also a grim one. Though most bodies have already been gathered up, the gore from their death has not been scraped from the stone or washed away by the rain, and the stench is enough to make one gag if upwind due to the corpses being burnt so quickly per the families wishes. Death hangs over the place like the night itself, a mix of mourning black cloth from wives and husbands and children. Caleb finds that he can't meet their eyes. In a way, he failed them by collapsing. Killing just one gnoll could have saved or avenged them, but instead he'd curled up and cried in the arms of someone who could have been out there helping.

“Seems we're the second group to return, tragically, I was hoping to beat Beauregard, at the very least.” Mollymauk laments, softly, to the right of Caleb, hands clutching a single bag of slightly worn reusable scrolls. They won't help in battle, but with the way his magic works, he won't need battle scrolls in the first place, not unless in a pinch. His mana is not endless, he can run out of spells, exhaust himself, but the small ones such as firebolt won't really drain him for awhile. It's the bigger elemental spells he has to work for. Hopefully, he thinks, there won't be anything big enough in the mine to require something as devastating as thunderwave. He isn't sure he'd even be able to cast it without bringing the place down on their heads, but if it's either collapsing the mine or letting whatever may lurk down there out…

Well. He'd really rather not think about it.

“That reminds me, your group, ah, does not seem to fit particularly well together, but Beau and Fjord in particular, that is...you do not like them?” It's pushing it, maybe. It might even come off as an interrogation, but what better way to learn of their flaws without interacting with them than from someone who will know them and isn't afraid to tell someone all about it?

Instead of immediately going over to join the two, Mollymauk presses his body against the edge of the bar near the door, arms crossed in thought, as if truly contemplating it. Thankfully, at least, he doesn't seem annoyed.

“Truthfully, darling, I think it's them that has a problem with me. Yasha fits perfectly well amongst them, gods know Beau was all but throwing herself at her feet. Fjord respects her and Jester delights in the prospect of having someone she can spill all her gossip to that might actually care. Me, though? They do not like me. Jester does, perhaps, and I don't mind her terribly but her personality can grate on my nerves and she does not have the best idea of when to stop.” His brow furrows, then, lips upturned into a sardonic smile that shows just the tips of his fangs.

“I think I scare them, really. You see my scars, yes? They do not look like normal scars from battle, I have seen the way you look at them. Knowingly. They are self inflicted. I’m what is known as a blood hunter, I manipulate my blood for magical attacks, such as coating my swords in them so they become elemental. So not only am I a tiefling, of which already has a bad reputation, but I’m also a blood hunter, of which has, perhaps, an even worse one. Or mayhaps they do not appreciate how pretty I am, in which I believe they may be blind, poor things.”

His words are a croon at the end, no longer the lovely lilt he used in the alleyway, but mocking, angry, a feral cat spitting as it's backed into a corner. He can't help but dislike them for putting such a tone of hatred into Mollymauk's voice, who has done nothing but dry his tears and try to welcome him. He's an outsider, they all are, but not even the outcasts will accept him. They share that, it would seem.

“They're not worth it, then. Leave them to their own devices.” He says, as if it's that simple, but he can already tell the other won't leave unless Yasha does, and sure enough, the blood mage--hunter, maybe--shakes his head.

“Yasha likes them well enough, and while I'm not going to make a blood pact with her anytime soon, I'd really rather stick around, you know?”

And Caleb does, sort of. He would make a binding pact with Nott if she asked it of him, but he also knows that kind of loyalty, the urge to stay with the familiar and the safe, like pack animals.

“I...yes. I understand. You should tell her of all this, however, and if it gets worse, and starts to weigh on you, leave them behind if she refuses to see your side of the story.” He reasons, and tries not to feel too much like a hypocrite, giving this man advice on how to live his life, how to be healthy and happy when he forgets to even eat at times, but he is the master of running away, be it from good or bad things. He ran away from the Pit, the caravans that opened themselves, albeit hesitantly to him and Nott, ran from village to village, from murder to murder, and ran from the newest opportunity to shed his plans and his age old hatred, to begin anew. He'd taken one look at the arms of Yelena and her parents, and fled into danger once more. He isn't sure if he'll ever stop. Not, at least, until he's dead.

Strangely, Mollymauk looks a little sad, but it's washed away like droplets of rain on glass as, finally, Beau spots them and reluctantly waves them over, scowling all the while.

“And so ends our last moment of peace. Savor it while it lasts, pretty, I imagine we won't be getting more of it anytime soon.” Mollymauk mutters darkly into his ear as he gathers himself once more, bag in hand and composure building itself back up just as fast as it had crumbled without Caleb even having seen it do so. He has to wonder, of the two of them, who has the most fabricated personalities and facades? A fascinating competition it would certainly prove to be.

“There y'all are, bout time. Got anything useful?” Fjord asks once they're within range, spreading out coins from a pouch across the table carefully, eyes wary as they rest on the approaching pair. He has to wonder if the man expects Caleb to suddenly snatch them and take off, as if he were truly so stupid as to do so in full view of everyone with no viable plan or escape route. This is the first time he's even been aware that the group was given a reward in the first place. He has to commend him for his level of paranoia, at the very least. It could easily rival his own.

Mollymauk throws himself down into one of the chairs with Caleb following, and makes a strange, jerking movement with his head, throwing it back and looking skyward as if to substitute rolling his eyes, which he can't quite help snorting at, despite the annoyed click of the half-orcs tongue at the openly mocking behavior. Perhaps the trip won't be all bad, if he has someone willing to indulge in a bit of humor. Especially at the expense of the others.

“Yes, quite. Found a few scrolls that'll come in handy but for the most part I think Caleb's magic will take care of the menial things like campfires and what have you. Still, best to come prepared.”

Fjord nods with a final glance at the bag laying on the table, begrudgingly respectful of Caleb's skills, of which he had seen somewhat the night before, and let's it go. Maybe he is able to be reasonable, though, Caleb thinks, he won't hold his breath.

The door to the building opens and slams into the wall with an abrupt and loud bang, Caleb nearly jumping out of his skin, Beau yelping in a tone he is sure she'll deny ever being capable of making, Fjord cursing up a storm, and Mollymauk having no visible reaction, head tilting backwards to take a look at the commotion.

Jester stands in the doorway, clapping her hands excitedly with Yasha wincing off to the side while Nott uses the large woman's body to hide herself at the sudden attention, porcelain mask firmly in place, thank the gods. The last thing they need is some grief stricken drunkard taking offense and starting something he can't possibly win. Just the thought of killing relative innocents makes his stomach turn, but he'll do whatever it takes to defend his little companion, and he knows the sentiment is returned. Has to know that, otherwise she'd have long since abandoned him to his fate.

“Oh! The spell works then! Perhaps too well, but…” Jester trails off, nervously waving at the people staring at her, then booking it to their table with Yasha and Nott following at a slower pace behind, as if that'll let her escape all the disgruntled glares.

Fjord slowly lowers his face into his hands and sighs.

“Sorry, sorry! I know, I'm sorry Fjord, I just wanted to show Nott some of my own magic, she kept going on about how Caleb's a really powerful wizard and so I wanted to know if he could do some of the spells I could do and then maybe I went a little bit overboard, I'm sorry!”

“Jester, Jes! It's fine, sit down. Did y'all get anything?” The half-orc asks, waving a hand dismissively towards the patrons who already have lost interest in the show, a nearly hopeful expression on his face.

Yasha, bless her, nods and lays out three saddlebags of goods, two filled to the brim with food and the other with a strange assortment of spell components and water flasks, her mismatching eyes glancing between Jester and Caleb assessingly. It's a rather soft and kind step to take to make sure they're well stocked, despite the cheap ingredients. It's not as if they can afford much. Guilt still squirms in his stomach anyway.

“I, ah, I do not need those, but thank you...very much, for thinking of me--er, us, I should say.” He blurts out, anxiously seeking out the deceptively soft tip of Mollymauk's tail beneath the table at the way the others look at him in surprise, aside from Nott anyway, and he can't see the blood hunter's expression.

“You...don't need spell components? But you're a wizard!” Beau protests, brow furrowed in a way that makes him...a little nervous, and his hands speed up, twining with the tail more and more until it winds up his wrist and is visible to the others, not that anyone other than Yasha seems to care or notice.

“Yes, but my abilities are a little different, more like...warlocks, perhaps. I don't need spell components because I have a patron God who fuels me, at least, I think so. It was never explained to me, and I'd rather not go into detail.”

The tail stops moving in his grip for a moment, then resumes it's fluttering, dragging along his coat in a smooth, repetitive motion, easing his nerves bit by bit. It's unfair to ask so much of Mollymauk, perhaps, but with Frumpkin so besotted with Yasha and his own reluctance to pull him away, he has no safety blanket, nothing to ease the stress of social situations, expectations and people, so many people looking at him, expecting things he can't give. If the tiefling is offering, then he might as well take it while it lasts, and try not to worry about keeping track of a rising debt.

“Well...we can come back to that later, I suppose,” Fjord starts after a few seconds, “What about you Jes, Nott?”

At her name, Jester beams joyfully, innocent and twice as bright as the sun, then nearly makes the table break by dropping her mace onto the wooden surface with an obnoxious clang that Caleb can tell gets them more glares.

His hands speed up again, then slow when Nott steps close and presses her side against his own.

The weapon is polished to a nearly annoying shine, the edges sharp enough that he can tell just brushing against them will cut into the skin, and the backside of the mace is covered in dull spikes apparently meant more for crushing than cutting. Clearly, it's a versatile mace, meant to be flipped around depending on the situation. The craftsmanship isn't too bad, either, though the little touches of Jester with deep marks of symbols and doodles from a knife in the hilt really stand out against the nearly spotless iron.

Jester, upon seeing his open appreciation, smiles at him, less sunshine-and-happiness and more genuine gratitude.

“This, my friends, is Sir-Crush-A-Lot!” She announces.

The group is, for once, blessedly silent, at least until she droops, just a little, face falling.

“O-Oh, that's great Jes, really, a-a, a very unique name. Fits it. And uh. You.” Fjord stammers out, though clearly regrets it when he immediately gets a lapful of cleric, her legs swinging right over his own like she belongs there, arms wrapped tight around his neck, smile stretching so much it looks like it hurts. Still, it's a cute scene. He can't say he likes Beau, because he definitely doesn't, and Fjord makes his bones ache in a way he absolutely loathes, but the others? The others aren't so bad. Perhaps he could grow to enjoy Yasha's company and Jester's innocence. Maybe, if Nott likes them enough, and they're up for it, they'll stick around, though he has a bit of a hard time seeing the two hard headed defacto leaders agreeing to it no matter how useful he may be.

“I am the best at naming things, I know! We have more weapons, but I prefer Sir Crush, I think.” She says, a small pout on her lips, then sits up and waves her hands towards Nott, urging the goblin to spill the contents of her own saddlebag.

“Actually, just pull them out one by one, please, Nott?” Caleb asks, stressing the words a bit, and by the way she bites her lip and leans a bit harder against him, he knows she's caught on to his message. Too much noise, too many eyes. Funny how he used to enjoy that feeling, how he associated it with safety, for surely if he felt it then Tirich was watching and nothing bad would happen? He had been wrong, but if the attempted kidnapping had taught him one thing, it's that he couldn’t rely on Tirich to always be there, no matter what. He can't put the blame on the God, not really. It's a bit unthinkable. The true culprits are the soldiers, the battlemages. Eodwulf. Astrid.

Trent.

The rush of sweltering hot magic that flares against Mollymauk's tail almost makes him panic, but the tiefling only looks vaguely tickled, and smiles when he catches Caleb's eye. Fire resistance. Right. Convenient.

He pushes the hatred down and focuses on the weapons laid out on the table, barely hearing the conversation through ears seemingly stuffed with cotton.

To the very left towards Mollymauk is a dagger, the blade a jagged mess of something black and smooth like glass, so fucked up and sharp that it can't be any sort of metal, surely. The hilt is clumsily wrapped with a deep purple cloth, and it feels a little ominous, a little bit like he shouldn't touch it. He moves on, but the feeling still lingers.

Next to it is a short sword, iron, probably, the hilt twisting up the blade like vines with deep etchings that sparkle, bronze inlaid in the groves. Nott looks a bit like she's seen a God, and Caleb snatches it up before anyone else can even take a proper look at it, hastily handing it over to her like one of the others will try and take it from him if he doesn't. Anything to keep that starry eyed look on her face.

“Oh, fancy! Are you gonna name it, or can I?! Please? Oh, please, oh please, oh please?!” Jester squeals, and it's only by the grace of whatever God Jester prays to that Fjord gets an arm around her in time to keep her in his lap and not sprawled on the dangerously filthy floor, his face already taking on a dark green across his cheeks as she turns her attention onto him instead.

Nott looks vindictively pleased for a moment, and he hides a laugh by coughing into his elbow. She has to get her revenge somewhere, apparently.

“I'm calling it Angus.” The rogue declares, solemnly, holding the sword delicately atop her bandaged hands like a well bred noble presenting a sword to her knight, her lips twitching slightly despite herself.

“That's beautiful, Nott. I love him.”

Satisfied at Mollymauk's voice and dutifully ignoring that it’s filled with laughter, she sheathes the blade and straps it to her belt under her loose cloak, yellow eyes occasionally darting to the strange dagger next to it uneasily. It's a founded concern, then.

“And what about...this?” Yasha asks, finally, eyes on the dagger once everyone has tucked away the smaller weapons that they were able to get, her face stoic, but her posture a little uneasy. The only thing keeping Caleb from getting really nervous now is the fact that Mollymauk--and Beau--just seem curious, not threatened, though he also notices that Jester doesn't seem to want to be near it.

“I don't know, feels like…something. Not evil but, capable? Whatever the hell happened to the owner or person who made this dagger, it wasn't pretty, and I think it remembers. Feels cursed, a little.” Beau explains, albeit choppily. Across from her, Mollymauk inclines his head in agreement, though something like amusement resides in the sharp, handsome lines of his face.

“Cursed, no. Blessed, yes, just not by the good guys.”

The tiefling has no problem reaching out and grabbing it despite the implications of such a statement, held tightly in his fist, claws making a strange tapping noise against the material it's made from. Then, with a show of confidence, he twirls it between his fingers, and the tail still loosely curled around Caleb's wrist flicks once, twice, until he rubs a finger along the flat end and it falls still.

“And that means…?”

“The Betrayer Gods. I'm not sure which, but if I had to guess? The Spider Queen. Where exactly did you get this anyway?” He asks, presumably raising his eyes from where they were locked onto the unnatural blade and onto a Jester that tucks herself further against Fjord as if to escape the uneasy flat tone the man slips into as he speaks.

“Blacksmith said the leader of the gnolls had it strapped to him, wrapped up in some weird cloth with a symbol on it. Didn't recognize it but figured it was just a clan symbol, and he thought we should have it for free for running them off. Is it...bad?”

Mollymauk's lips purse in thought, but his back is lined with tension now, tail no longer still and Caleb, unable to calm it, untangles it from his arm and let's go. The tiefling doesn't seem to notice.

“If that gnoll was carrying a weapon touched by the Spider Queen, we have much more to worry about than a simple infestation of the bloody things. I think it's time we pack up and get to those mines, lovelies, no more rest. Mortal sacrifice is rather dreadful, don't you think?”

No one laughs at the grim joke, not even Mollymauk, and they rise in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ich bin überrascht = I'm surprised
> 
> Probably. Hopefully, the translation is right.
> 
> "Tirich only knows what Mollymauk is thinking" I think I'm funny huh
> 
> This chapter is literally:  
> Caleb: *appears*  
> Mollymauk: ive only had Caleb for a day and a half but if anything were to happen to him id kill everyone in this town and then myself
> 
> Also am I rlly introducing a bunch of things and important players so early on? You bet I am. Now if you're wondering why Fjord is such a suspicious bastard think about that early introduction and then don't mention it again :^)
> 
> Jester is,,,my girl. Yasha and Nott too but Jes,,,Jester,,,country girl I love youuuu,,,don't hurt her guys she deserves the world


	6. Paralyzed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter I had to break up yikes I'm REALLY not fond of this one, not much happens but!! At least I didn't kill off someone like I planned. You are welcome.

(-Through the multitude of eyes, taking shapes under the sky, aren't you curious to see, what kind of monster you've set free-)

 

In the Pit, time had very little meaning past the amount of light you had streaming in through the window barred by iron. The look into the outside world was more a torture than anything helpful. You weren't taken out of your cell unless the captain or whoever the fuck was there wanted information. You stayed, and you stayed, and eventually, you died. That was how it went, and that was how Caleb Widogast was supposed to fade away, near yet so very impossibly far from nature. His family was dead, burned to ash, Tirich was dead or in his deep, infinite sleep, and he did not have anyone else. The only thing he wanted to do was lay down and join them, to rest at Tirich's side at last.

And then a tiny slip of a goblin was thrown into his cell in the hopes that she'd eat him to save the guards from having to trek all the way to the back of the Pit.

Clearly, she hadn't. She'd seen something in him, and she had not let him simply roll over and die as he yearned to.

The first thing he did once they were truly out of the danger zone was look up into the great, expansive sky, and smile, a bitter thing, the sun beaming down on him for once, unhindered. He keeps the time, now, but only because it's convenient.

It has been exactly two hours since Mollymauk's exclamation about the true potential for evil in the mines, and exactly ten minutes since they arrived at their destination.

There are precisely two and a half hyena corpses strung up in the trees, webs spun haphazardly around their very slowly decaying bodies, guts and all manner of strewn about body parts spilling onto the ground below, the bottom half of one of the canines is missing entirely, the only thing keeping it up being a single thick rope of string encasing its throat and looping around a tree branch.

Behind him, Caleb hears Jester gag, a whimper of discomfort dragging its way out of her throat in a way that has him reaching backwards to give her his hand despite himself, taking comfort in the way she squeezes and shuffles closer. He can remember the first time he killed someone, the violent reaction, the lurch of his stomach, the horror of it all. He had been alone, then, but she is not, and should not have to go through something similar. Innocence like that must be preserved, for as long as it can be.

“Can't have been here long, a few hours maybe. That scout came back pretty quickly and didn't mention ANY of this.” Nott whispers, once almost all of them have managed to drag their eyes away from the glassy expressions, the twisting features. Caleb can occasionally find a certain beauty in death, a respect for the force of Nature as she takes back the bodies of the dead. There's nothing beautiful about the scene. All he sees is decay, area seeming to press into them, the air a suffocating mix of rot from the decomposing bodies and something heavier, familiar in its essence. Divinity.

At his side, tail swishing in the air behind him with sharp, precise movements that betray his agitation, Mollymauk takes in the scene, expression frighteningly blank, as still as the corpses he watches. Caleb has to wonder what he's thinking, but he can't even look into his eyes to know, the red shielding them better than any training could ever do. There's so many things about the man that fascinates him, draws him in, hook, line, and sinker. Is it the natural allure of tieflings? The blood magic, so strange and unfamiliar to any but the most studious of mages has a power to it, dangerous in its intensity? Perhaps it's that. He can't know, and that scares him.

“The hell makes marks like this?” Fjord asks, voice subdued, eyeing the way the annoyingly tall grass is smoothed down like something was dragged through it, though what's even stranger is the upturned dirt where the smoothed grass begins, as if something of relative size pushed its way out of the ground itself.

Behind him, now close enough to feel against his back, Jester gives a strained, nervous bout of laughter that isn't returned by the distracted party.

“Hah, worms, uhm, centipedes, too? Please do not tell me we will be fighting bugs!”

“Oh, worms are nutritious, if we get stuck down there we can eat them.” Nott says brightly, completely unconcerned by the centipede comment. But then, he's seen her eat all manner of insects, so it's not surprising. He really hopes it's not a centipede though. The legs are...disgusting, and that's rich coming from him.

“Spiders.”

They all pause, and glance at Mollymauk, who still hasn't moved, head tilted to the side, ears twitching as if listening for something. His voice is flat again, so monotone that it feels unnatural, and even Caleb can't help but feel a tad apprehensive about it.

“Oh, fuck.” Beau murmurs, and Caleb can't help but agree. Fuck indeed.

“Spiders? BIG spiders?! Bigger than Nott?!” Jester squawks, and only then does Nott look uneasy, yellow eyes darting from the hole she still had her fingers in and the entrance of the mine that has torn grass all around it. Carefully, she scrambles back, and subtly wipes her talons off on Yasha's pant leg as she goes.

“Right, thanks for that. Spiders don't have armor right? We'll just stab them then.” The woman says, looking all the while as if this is just the most boring thing she could be doing at the moment. He kind of wishes he had her nerve.

Mollymauk snorts, then, and all at once Caleb feels the tension leave his shoulders. Surely if Mollymauk is not so concerned, they will be fine?

“Maybe. Weapon touched by the Spider Queen, and now big spiders coming out of nowhere? Don't underestimate them, my dear, not if...SHE'S got her eye on this place. But no, they aren't like beetles, they shouldn't be too hard to kill overall with no body protection. Magic might not do it though.” The tiefling nods, then shoots Caleb an apologetic glance, as if it were his fault. Strange.

“Right, well, I'm not sure what's worse. Spiders, or gnolls. I mean, not too many got away last night, like, a handful I guess but we don't know how many are even down there. Do you think spiders could overpower something like a gnoll?” Beau asks, leaning heavily against her staff, free hand fiddling with her bun, eyes darting from the smashed mining equipment to the nearest hyena corpse, then back to the group. There aren't even any traces of the spiders aside from the way they arrived. They weren't harmed in the scuffle, which is...concerning. Hyenas aren't the most threatening of beasts but if they weren't even able to get a chunk out of their adversary…

“If there are enough, probably. Depends on what kind of spider it is. Venomous? Jumping? Trapping? There are many different kinds. None of them good.”

At Mollymauk's statement, Jester groans, tucking herself against Caleb's side, her tail winding around her waist almost subconsciously. He can't imagine she'd be particularly scared of bugs, she just doesn't seem the type, but even Beau seems put off by the idea of ‘giant spiders’.

“Great, no, really, that's fantastic. Any more good news you have to share?” Beau asks, an ugly grimace painting itself across her face, like she's just bitten into a lemon.

With clearly forced cheer, Mollymauk shakes his head ‘no’ and smiles, sharp teeth on display in a way that reassures him, almost. He knows what blood hunters do, somewhat. Perhaps it won't take too much to get through this after all. But then, there's a difference between fiends and Gods, isn't there?

“Mollymauk?”

The tiefling pauses, then looks over his shoulder, gaze heavy on Caleb, like a sudden weight of expectations falls upon his back.

“The Spider Queen, she would not come here for just any reason, there would have to be a very strong incentive. Are we...are we equipped to handle a God? The Betrayer Gods aren't known for being reasonable. If whatever's down there is bad enough to get her attention, to bring her here herself…” He trails off, aware of the way Jester looks halfway to a panic attack, the tension in the others posture, and amongst them all, the way Mollymauk just keeps smiling. There's something unsettling about it. He's just a tiefling, just a very mortal person. No one should be that fearless. He is a man that has seen things they have not, and he no longer fears death. That scares Caleb, a little. He has lived at the side of a God for years, and death promises him no change from that situation. Or it did, anyway. He does not know what awaits him in the beyond anymore. Sometimes, it sounds like a relief.

Right now? Now, he fears what Mollymauk does not, and fear is a very strong incentive, an instinct for survival. If even one of them does not have that...

“She wouldn't be able to come here fully, not anymore. Sending adversaries like her spiders? Sure. Hell, she could probably project herself in there too, but it's not her that we need worry about. Just her shitty minions. So long as you stay polite with her and take no deals she offers, should she show herself, we'll be fine. You focus on keeping yourself safe, and I'll focus on cutting down the spiders, alright dear?” It's not even a request. It's a demand, and one Caleb feels he can't deny, not anymore. Mollymauk is warm and welcoming, but perhaps there's something far colder underneath that colorful exterior. He isn't so sure he wants to see it anymore.

From the way Fjord frowns and watches Mollymauk, like a wary cat, almost, he'd say it's an echoed sentiment. He should have taken his own advice about underestimating the man.

“Okay, okay, spiders, that's cool! Oh, Traveler, what have I gotten into?” Jester mumbles, finally finding the courage to pull away, hands a sickly pale light blue around Sir...her weapon. He isn’t going to say that bloody name aloud, nor is he going to think it. He isn't quite sure of who the Traveler is, either, but perhaps that's a question for another time.

Assuming they make it out of the mine.

Finally, the group steps away from the skittish horse they'd borrowed for their cart and progresses further into the clearing, careful to avoid the holes dotting the ground, the uneven dirt scattered around from the--presumed--spiders just making the soft grass even more hard to walk on, Mollymauk's heels sinking uncomfortably into the tangled and crushed brambles and Nott's uncovered feet making her wince every time her toes dig into the curiously moist dirt. He thinks about the blood staining the fur of the hyenas, and then stops thinking about the path he's navigating at all.

“Shouldn’t we cover up the wagon somehow?” Beau asks, tapping her staff against the ground in front of her warily, taking up the lead because of it despite her apprehension, that she openly protests.

“Mm, nein, though the grass is very tall, I am not entirely sure it is worth the effort. It is not as if spiders will steal anything from it, anyway. They may kill the horse, however, we don’t have the time to try and prevent it.”

“Right, yeah, good point. So, just to be clear, you're all making me go in first, aren't you?”

Mollymauk snorts, then waves his hand at Yasha. “Hardly. You're not even the strongest among us, that's Yasha. She'll go first, then you, then Jester, then Fjord, then Nott, then Caleb, and finally, me.”

“Can I be behind Fjord?” Jester raises her hand, beaming a bright, pointedly fake innocent smile at the half-orc, who, Caleb notes with amusement, is desperately looking anywhere else. It's a wonder why he's so embarrassed by her interest, but then, he doesn't even know if the man likes women, or anyone at all. Nor does he care, either.

“Ah, if it makes you feel safer, Jes, I guess it's fine with me.”

“Yes, yes that is EXACTLY why I wish to be behind you! Unless you want to be behind me? I would not complain…”

Nott looks on in quiet despair, and Caleb tries his best not to laugh at her for her horror. She'd never forgive him for it.

“Jester, you'll be behind Fjord, and then you can both get a room once we leave, I'm all for a free show but not on hyena guts. That's dirty, and not in the good way.” The purple tiefling orders, a wrinkle in his brow that tells Caleb that no, he isn't actually in for a free show. Not this one, at least. It's a rather returned sentiment amongst the others, he thinks. Thankfully.

“Into the mine. Mine. Spider mine. Maybe gnoll mine. Okay. In we go.” The monk huffs, her shoulders rising with the breath, but only moves when Yasha ‘politely’ shoulders past her and heads in, deceptively thin greatsword hanging loosely in her hand, the picture of casual.

Fjord carefully pushes Beau's mouth closed, and then down they go, into the mouth of the mine.

~°~

There isn't much to see, actually, in that Beau can't see a damn thing anyway. Caleb has to give her some of his sympathy for it, but not much, given her truly warm welcome, even if he can't blame her for it.

“Ow, shit, fuckin stairs, gods dammit. It's so dark, fuck. How many of you have darkvision anyway, this is bullshit, me and Caleb don't!” She hisses, kicking her foot into the space not occupied by Yasha lightly, pain arching up her ankle.

“Ah, well, I have very good eyes in the dark, actually. I can see quite well, now that the light is not making it harder to adjust.” He mutters, wincing when her voice rises in indignation at the confession.

“Oh, great, you don't need spell components, you can lie like nobody's business, you can fuckin see in the dark, now, too! What the fuck CAN'T you do?!”

“Erm...I am not very good at healing magic?”

Jester laughs when that answer just makes the monk throw her hands up in frustration, far louder than is necessary, and even Beau joins in when everyone collectively shushes her, not that she's fazed by it in the slightest.

“I can though, it's a good thing I'm here! And I have darkvision too, Caleb, that is so exciting! I did not know humans could have it!” She whispers, leaning heavily against Fjord's body so she can walk backwards without falling, despite his grunt of irritation at her behavior. It's annoyingly charming.

“Generally, they can't, dear. Caleb is simply unique amongst his kind, then, hm?” Mollymauk grins, much to the obvious delight of Nott, who nods as if he were a seasoned warrior doling out advice to his apprentice. Already he can feel an alliance building between the two, which both worries him, and makes something warm bloom in his throat, at the thought of her truly trusting another, someone else to make sure she stays safe. He won't share the idle fantasies that play in his mind with her, with anyone, but they give him comfort, give him hope. He desperately wants Mollymauk to be a follower of Tirich, someone who he can share all with, who understands the love his God had for all his disciples, and the loyalty that gave him. All he has to do is find the evidence, now.

A soft, click of noise, like an unnatural beast calling for his pack, echoes up to the group, and they all fall silent.

Skittering, claws or spindly legs on the floor, chitters of insects, and just below that, a raspy voice, whispering something they can't hear. Mollymauk's ear twitches, head tilted towards the ground, a frown playing at the corners of his mouth. Caleb watches, silent, and waits.

“Drider, I would think, or some drow cultist. If it's a drow, good news, we probably have a better chance at killing them.” He announces, finally, after what feels like an eternity of waiting on the edge of a cliff, the rest of the group turning to look at the man as well.

Nott presses closer to Caleb's front, hands fiddling with the sharp edges of Angus, and avoids looking into the tieflings unnerving eyes. “And if it's a drider?”

The blood hunter smiles, all teeth, more of a snarl than anything else. The humor is missing, and he just looks feral instead.

“If it's a drider, we light the place up and hope for the best. Assuming we can collapse the mine without crushing ourselves, that will be our course of action. I'm not fond of spiders, and even less so of some elf that’s half of one.”

“I mean...are they really THAT bad?”

The tiefling snorts, as if Beau's question was a joke, as if it should all be common knowledge. “It's an eight foot tall half-elf-half-spider indentured to a Betrayer God. I'd say so.”

“Ain't you from the circus? The hell do you know all this?” Fjord questions, abruptly, a frown playing at his lips, and Mollymauk stills again. He isn't smiling this time.

“You are a very paranoid man, Mr.Fjord. I'd be more careful where I threw my accusations, if I were you.” He responds, and his voice is a croon once more, the one that sets Caleb's teeth on edge and makes him think of reaching hands he can't see that would terrorize him as a child in his nightmares, the one place Tirich couldn't reliably reach, not without warning, but that warning always came too late. The reminder is bitter and makes him so very uneasy. Those words do not fit in such a pretty mouth.

Fjord doesn't answer, and collectively, glancing at each other only once, they continue to make their way down, finally being able to spread out and away from one another seconds later as the path opens up to a room.

A very destroyed room.

Whatever the gnolls had planned, it had evidently fallen apart, and quickly. Smashed tables and chairs litter the ground, crates cracked in the middle stacked on top of one another as if something heavy had landed on them, bags of things are ripped apart and strewn about the place, and in the middle of it all is a dead spider, roughly about the size of a big dog, laying just in front of the opening. It's brown back end covered in bristles glistens with blood, it's front half a smear against the floor underneath a heavy log connected to a rope laying in front of the exit, and beside him, Nott looks both thoughtful, and politely disgusted.

“What do you think giant spider tastes like?”

“Bärchen, no.”

“How about we don't do that, please?” Fjord asks, and Nott grins at him, teeth bared like an angry dog.

“This room is messed up, it is, ah, as if they were making a barrier, see?” Yasha points out, hands moving to show off the few intact tables on their sides, all facing the entryway. “They feared something, I think, or knew we'd be coming. I don't think they were prepared for something like this.”

Mollymauk snorts, leaning against the large woman casually, clearly in tune with her. There's a history there. He hopes he gets to learn of it, at least, all but brimming with intrigue, desperately taking in everything he can about the curiosity before him. He isn't so sure it's just the possibility of Tirich that drives him, but he also doesn't want to turn the man into some sort of disturbing project to look at like a particularly interesting beetle.

“Really, I don't think anything could prepare for literal giant spiders touched by a God.” He says, his lips upturned into a genuinely amused expression. The strange dips in emotion the tiefling expresses, the way he switches rapidly from one mood to another at the drop of a hat makes Caleb wonder, and quite a bit. It's enough to make one think none of the emotions are actually real so much as a petty facade, and he's starting to think that maybe that isn't too far from the truth, either. He can only hope to someday be able to play such a comfortable role of liar.

And that is what Mollymauk is. He doesn't even seem to be hiding it, but far be it from him to judge. After all, that's why Fjord doesn't like either of them.

Beside him, Nott tugs on his coat and scrunches her fingers into cat claws, gestures her head to the rope, then points to the two doorways across the room. Frumpkin, scouting for traps ahead. Smart.

With a pat on the head for the goblin, he snaps the cat into place and nudges him into the right tunnel, eyes turning a glowing blue, as if hundreds of tiny luminescent bulbs have replaced them.

With his improved senses he can hear what Mollymauk undoubtedly hears, the clicking of some deformed creature below them, what sounds like hundreds of spider legs skittering about, enough to make him nearly lose concentration out of revulsion. He can handle insects, but giant spiders is an incredibly large stretch.

The stench of the corpse leads Frumpkin to take a wide berth around it, his little cat paws padding silently across the floor and further away from the group. Behind him, with a quick glance, he sees his motionless body, Mollymauk and Nott on opposite sides, grounding him. Nott seems to be bickering with Beau about his ‘condition’, and the blood hunter watches after him curiously, something strange in his expression, like pride maybe. It's a fleeting thought, but one he has to dismiss. What would Mollymauk have to be proud of in regards to Caleb anyway? They've only just met. Nott, on the other hand, certainly. He knows she's proud of him, she'd be proud of him if he managed to make a sandwich properly. It's annoying, how much that makes him want to bundle her up into a hug.

Which he can do, now. Before, he had been severely touch starved. Years with no contact, not even speaking after losing the hallucinations, it had taken its toll. His muscles had deteriorated, despite his occasional exercise, if only for something to do, he was only able to speak a few words at a time, and just being brushed by Nott's skin made him feel as if he were on fire, every nerve in his body singing at the contact. She had been hurt by his desperation for him not to touch her, until he'd explained, jaggedly. Then she'd all but sat down on him to get them into contact, had made some sort of schedule. Three hours of cuddling (not that she called it that) a day, with as much skin as possible, albeit in a proper way as well. She had body image issues, and he didn't want to look at the way his ribs were visible.

It's a good thing, the way she's helped him. He only hopes he's helped her in return.

Frumpkin yowls, abruptly, far more quieter than he'd usually go for, and were Caleb able to, he'd frown. Noise.

Cocking one ear, he listens upwards. Nothing.

The path forward yields...something. He can't even tell what it is. Like...moving air through leaves, that very light sound they make, but he can't feel anything. A small bit of thought filters in, then, through Frumpkin's straining. Webs. Moving webs.

Spiders.

And where there's spiders? There's undoubtedly gnolls, and where there's gnolls, there's captives. Dead ones, at this point, but bringing back the bodies is the best they can hope for, at this point.

Ahead of him, the path continues to curve in a downward spiral, and to the right, a pitfall trap. Nasty things. He's careful to reveal it by rolling the stones holding the flimsy cover out of the way with a small mental nudge to the cat, then watches attentively as the cover falls down and into the darkness below. He can't tell how big the hole is, nor what's at the bottom. Not a good sign.

There's no point in risking his cover by getting Frumpkin to go further, and instead brings him back, lingering long enough to get within ten feet of his body before pulling back, steadying himself on Mollymauk's arm, Nott having decided to trust the other in watching him to root through the last remaining sacks, a slightly yellow apple clenched between her dagger sharp teeth. Food hasn't went bad? Peculiar.

Getting used to the disorientation the perspective switch gives him is always a little nauseating, but the sharp smell of bitter apple is alluring enough to steady his stomach. He doesn't eat much, has never managed to steady his metabolism from always being on the edge of starving in the Pit, the constant strain of not having enough money and being unable to steal enough making that prevalent after they got out. He's a little less skinny, a little more healthy, but he's far from peak condition. If they won't stay just for Mollymauk, then perhaps they'll stay for regular food. Jester hordes it away, but is always happy to share her somewhat stale pastries, and it's a kindness he hasn't known in awhile, from anyone other than Nott.

He knows Jester follows some sort of God that isn't acceptable in the eyes of the Empire. Perhaps she too could be an ally. Assuming she doesn't attempt to convert him, anyway.

“Ah, everyone? I have checked one tunnel. I am not sure what's in the left one, but I can just barely hear movement in the right one, and a trap. Perhaps that is the best place to check for people.” Caleb speaks up after shooing Frumpkin away for his own safety, over the rising argument between Mollymauk and Fjord he is uninterested in following, Jester watching avidly from the side like a sports fan cheering for her team. He can't tell which she's rooting for, though.

“A trap, huh? We'll have to be careful, then, y'all. Assuming we don't find anything there, we'll go down the other path.” The half-orc decides, falchion in hand, what looks like a handful of raspberries in the other.

When no one complains, not even Mollymauk, he pops them into his mouth and soldiers on into the curving tunnel, careful to watch for traps Caleb himself did not catch, everyone else following along once more.

~°~

When the steep path finally ends, it spits them out into a room that makes his stomach turn again, and the smell of food still on Nott only makes it worse, this time. Were he any less used to gore, he'd probably throw up.

Strung up in thick webs that cover the room floor to ceiling, is the bodies of gnolls, humans, four hyena corpses cut open and stuffed full with sticky spider eggs, clearly new. The gnolls fur is covered in all sorts of substances, and the humans are so mangled he can't even tell what gender they might be. The stench is disgusting, the air thick with heat only making them rot quicker, and already he can hear flies buzzing somewhere unseen, making their homes in the fetid corpses all tangled up.

“Oh, gods…” Jester whispers, making Caleb flinch, hands alighting abruptly at the sudden noise in his ear.

The fire flickers, casting shadows across the walls, and illuminates the form of a large tarantula once hidden in the darkness, about the size of Nott, wrenching some sort of horrifying scream of rage from the disgusting creature, which skates across the room and is echoed back by even more of them, all up in the webs. They've caught not only their scent, but sight of them as well, and they won't be getting out of it without a fight.

Yasha growls, Mollymauk hisses a vexed curse in Infernal, and the monster lunges towards Fjord.

Immediately, the half-orc meets it halfway, falchion gleaming under the sudden glare of a cast of dancing lights, the sturdy metal slicing right through the unprotected flesh and cleaving off the leg attempting to hit him.

It shrieks that awful noise once more, a cacophony of spiders meeting its cry of pain, but it's silenced by a two rapid fire bolts from Nott, who holds Angus between her teeth for a quicker draw.

Two more simply take its a place, an enlarged wolf spider and a somewhat smaller tarantula respectively, the larger one already throwing itself at Fjord, forcing the two of them away from the tightly pressed together group and forcing a grunt of pain out of him.

Over the wailing of the creatures, Caleb can hear a voice, the words a mere caress of some strange language, like Infernal but just different enough for him not to understand it. Abyssal, maybe. It's almost wet, like a hundred slugs trailing across his skin, nearly forcing him to lose concentration on the building spell underneath his skin, he can only just raise his head above the torrent of sensation when Mollymauk's body crowds in close to him.

“Focus on the heat in your veins, Kostbar, shrug it off, it can't reach you here.” The tiefling coos, so close that he can feel the warm huffs of oddly timed air against the shell of his ear, time seeming to stand still as he does as he's told, and finally, the spell strikes true, the ecstasy of strong magic rushing over him so quickly that his breathing stutters and pinpricks blossom over his skin.

A funnel of fire erupts in the webs, an explosion of heat wasping over the group, and the malcontented screeches turn to something as close to pain that the monsters can feel as they're all set ablaze, the fire catching onto the webs and rapidly burning away, eating both corpses and living things, then snuffing out just as abruptly as it had begun, scorch marks all along the area.

Fjord shoves his assailant away with a slam of his boot and plunges his sword into its body, and it falls all at once. Dead. The tarantula soon follows with a resounding crash from Jester's mace held in shaky hands.

Silence, save for their panting breaths and the crackling of small flames still smoking from the charred bodies, follows the violent end to the fight.

“Well, that was new.” Yasha says, her accented voice lilting with what Caleb thinks is, maybe, admiration. Even he can admit that it was...impressive, given his lack of true, layered combat experience. He's had the ability to cast these spells of course, but has never had to use them, not the big ones. Obviously, his plan is reliant on stealth, so giant swirling towers of fire isn't the best choice when they need to take someone out. Not that he wouldn't prefer just burning his targets to ash and making a quick getaway, the irony is rich in the scenario, but it's always been a personal endeavor. Killing them from far away takes the bloody satisfaction from the kill, from seeing the light leave their eyes, the terror reflected on their face that they so openly mocked him for so long ago.

No, up close and personal is always best.

“That was AMAZING, Caleb! I didn't know you could do that!” Nott gasps, whipping around from where she stood huddled against Beau’s back as a cover, Angus in one hand, crossbow in the other. The pride and awe in her voice is unmistakable, and he nearly blanches when Jester squeals and echoes the sentiment, appreciation clear. He's never liked having all eyes on him, but it's…nice, seeing admiration on their faces instead of blind suspicion.

“Did y'all hear that voice, though? Felt uncomfortable, like it was wanting me to do something. Sword started glowing when I heard it.” Fjord questions, then, eyes glancing around the singed room, as if whatever they had heard was lurking just a few feet away and wasn't affected by the blast. With a voice like that, perhaps it wouldn't be too surprising.

He nods along with the others, his uncertainty as clear as everyone else's, save for Mollymauk, who's eyes linger on the only other passage in the room, head tilted like a curious cat, tail tapping against his leg. Perhaps he recognizes it, with his blood hunter background.

“Molly? You recognize something?” Yasha asks, her soft, soothing voice a low murmur that curls through Caleb in a way he can tell is just a little magical, like the way Infernal spoken by tieflings makes one's hair stand on end. He can't quite put his finger on what that means, though. Celestial spoken by aasimar is like a choir, all at once settling in his bones, not like the way Infernal does, but like a guest, a mere temporary brush against his magic. Strangely, it's much like that. With her stature, too, and strange hair...hm.

“Mm, maybe so, Yash, maybe so. I do believe we're all quite lucky, however. That was a form of control, and had we been a little less defensive, well. I think you can imagine.” He scoffs, turning sharply on his heel with his back to the doorway in an almost deliberate, dismissive gesture, as if the entity isn't even worth his time. Bold or stupid, he can't decide, but then, Mollymauk acts so confidently that he can't help but be soothed by it, so maybe there's merit to a little bit of stupid bravery.

Beau looks less than impressed, her arms tight across her chest, staff propped loosely against her side. “Should we keep going, even after that shit?”

Caleb hums, softly, curling and stretching his fingers as the burst of powerful fire magic continues to lightly push at his skin, an urging to let loose, to let it run free, a bird in a gilded cage. Were it sentient, perhaps he'd feel bad, but it's simply a projection of his own thoughts, and the intoxication of burning his enemies to ash and not feeling the flashes of guilt afterwards. The people were already dead, after all, and spiders don't smell like burning flesh or elicit guilt. It's just ichor and disgust.

He says, “We've come this far. It is fair to say the captives are not alive, ja? We can still look, but whatever is down there, I do not think it would be good to let it get out of here. If not for the sake of Alfield, then for the later sake of ourselves.”

Surprisingly, Beau nods, a thoughtful look on her face at his reasoning. “Hey, yeah, he makes a fair point. They'll find some way to blame us for jumping ship if we just leave since they know who we are anyway right? Might as well finish this.”

Neither Nott nor Jester look particularly happy about it, but as the others decide to fall back into the established order, the two go right along as well, once more into the darkness.

And somehow, it's even darker than before, as if every bit of shadow has been replaced by something unnatural on purpose, much like shroud spells, though he can't feel the usual hum of mana that would accompany such a thing. It's definitely not a good sign, as even those with particularly strong darkvision have to take it slow. They can't check for traps like this, and they can't go faster if no one can tell whether or not they'll be walking into some sort of spike pit. Instead, their pace is that of a snail, and they shuffle along much too loudly in the crushing silence that followed the end of combat, the end of that vapid excuse for a voice.

The spiraling shaft seems to take years to descend, the clicking of Molly's heels perhaps the loudest noise in the tunnel, but it's not met by anything angry from below. More silence. No vicious growls, no clicking of spiders, and, thankfully, no voices. Or perhaps, not thankfully. The lack of noise makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and only Nott's hand in his, unnecessarily guiding him--or for her own comfort, though she will never tell--keeps him from simply side stepping out of line, casting Slow on the group and making a break for it with Nott in tow. They need the money, and they need the answers, but it is not worth getting either of them killed. He will not see his little companion fall.

But he doesn't get the chance. The very floor beneath them rumbles abruptly, shaking so violently that for a brief second he feels the fear of the common folk when they hear the clanking of armour, the feeling of inevitability. He has never been scared of the dark, but this? This terrifies him.

Nott yelps and scrambles backwards, bringing herself so close that she easily hides away into his coat, and he can see Jester nearly fall and bust her head open before Yasha yanks her back and pulls the others in front of him to her chest despite their relatively beefier sizes. He can't hear nor feel Mollymauk move at all, but that's far overshadowed by the terror shooting through his veins as fast as light.

And then it stops, just as quickly as it had begun. Dust from above them drifts down onto the crowns of their head, small, far more natural cobwebs hang from the ceiling where they had been disturbed, but no more tremors. For now.

“That wasn't a quake, that was like...like a boom stick! I know the difference, guys! Someone had to have set that off!” Nott whispers, finally, after she's managed to peel herself off him with as much dignity as she can muster, and he can just barely make out a grimacing smile on her lips, her ears perked up. She's proud.

He affectionately runs his fingers through her now dirt covered hair, careful not to pull on the new tangles, and flashes her a grin he knows she will see, the kind that says he is also proud, but of her. She beams, all but lighting up the tunnel, and begins to hiss excitedly to a curious and all but unaffected Jester about what exactly a “boom stick” is. It fills him with warmth all the way down to his toes, to observe how she does not look for such approval in the others, the ones she will need it from. Always, his is the most important opinion in the room. His mind settles, and the anxiety recedes a little when she takes his hand in hers once more.

“Right so it's like a, uhm, it's a stick, yes? And the stick has a string or rope or something hanging out of it at the top, and when you light that bit on fire, after a few seconds or whatever depending on the length, it causes an alchemical reaction and then BOOM! I think you can make an even bigger boom by adding different things or just packing a bunch of sticks together but that had to be only one, I'm sure of it!” She explains, waving her hands wildly around and barely avoiding hitting Caleb's knees, not that he minds. He knows what she speaks of, but it is not something she is so foolish as to play with, limiting herself to minor explosions when she dabbles in alchemy, assuming they have the money, which isn't often. Not having to buy spell components is useful for their budget, and if he isn't spending that extra money on food, it's books or ingredients.

“Ja, I do not know the proper name, but they are very dangerous, often used for clearing cave-ins or making paths for mines such as these. That can have bad after effects too of course, such as making the, ah, cave-ins worse and crushing the workers, or causing the cave-ins themselves. Stone shaping magic is only used in cities, it is not readily available to smaller towns such as these, so it is understandable that the workers would use the sticks for quicker access. Strange that someone is using it now, of all times, however.” He hums thoughtfully, head turned to watch Mollymauk from the corner of his eye. The tieflings ears are perked, but one twitches towards him as he speaks, then goes back a bit, as if annoyed. Whatever he hears, it's not good.

“Boom sticks, that's amazing, can we ha-”

“No, Jester.” Fjord sighs, interrupting her before she can truly begin. Her ears droop, then straighten as, finally, noise echoes up towards them.

Hissing, clicking, tapping. More spiders, and...he can't tell what it is. His vision is good, and his hearing is as well from hours spent in the Wood, the home of Tirich's power. The god had not left him so defenseless after the kidnapping incident, and he knows how to stay quiet and to listen. He knows how to hunt, be it squirrels, birds, deer, or even people.

But he is only human. Mollymauk has much better, perhaps magically altered senses, clearly, and so he looks to him for guidance.

“You can hear it better than us, ja? You tell us what you hear as we go down.” Caleb murmurs to the still blank faced blood hunter, who only gives him a very small, deliberate nod, clearly far more aware of the things around him than Caleb has given him credit for. It makes him want to curl in on himself, to shy away from the new found realization that he's been studied just as intently as the others this entire time, but by now, it's too late anyway. Whatever Mollymauk has wished to know, he has undoubtedly found.

“Yasha, keep going, a little faster, Mollymauk will relay what he hears.” He whispers towards the front, and with a little bit of an unsteady start, they continue filing downwards.

For what feels like an hour he thinks perhaps Mollymauk has decided that no, he won't be helping them anymore, but instead, he feels the tiefling press a little closer from behind after what is undoubtedly just a few short seconds, his entire body screaming all at once when their skin brushes that he's in danger, the air he breathes turning sharp in his lungs, and then, it's gone, leaving him struggling to keep his breathing steady so the man doesn't catch on. He isn't sure what that was. Maybe it's best he doesn't know.

“Person, average human size, male by the vocal sounds he makes but who am I to assume, hm? Fighting by the breathing pattern, fucking spiders have too many legs to differentiate so quickly, we don't have enough time to do so.” Mollymauk says, warm breath washing over his skin and forcing an annoying shiver down his spine at the sensation.

“Possible hostage down there, fighting currently, be prepared for a battle.” Caleb relays dutifully, and the body pressed against his lingers in a way that has him wanting to lean back into the heat the mans race always gives off, and tuck himself away, as far as possible, fear of exposure eating away at him now that he's so rudely thrust himself into the knowledge of unwanted eyes upon him.

He can't see if Yasha makes any visual confirmation that she's heard, can only take heed from the sudden uptake in the speed of the group, moving from slow shuffling to nearly jogging in a single, abrupt instance. He isn't made for running, not really, but he's got some amount of stamina at least, enough to keep up with Yasha's ridiculously long legs Beau is so fond of. He has no doubt the woman mourns the loss of vision for that exact reason.

“Fuck, okay, slow down, please!” Beau groans, yelping sharply when Nott shushes her by poking her in the leg with the tip of Angus, her long ears pulled back in irritation. He isn't so sure that he can break up another argument between the two at this point, but it hardly matters, as just as their harsh ‘discussion’ reaches its peak, the floor levels out and they enter a dimly lit hall, the sounds of fighting growing increasingly louder as they move, and their pace continues to hasten.

The hall takes a sharp turn, and then they're spit out into a room blazing with light, little globes of radiance shining all along the room, in the air, hovering over the dirty ground and stuck to broken furniture strewn about the place, as if scattered hastily by the caster in an attempt to give them any semblance of vision.

There's a man in the middle of the veritable arena, his afro so white that it seems to glow a pale blue in the magelight and contrasts handsomely with his dark skin tone, and though his body shows signs of age, he swings his staff onto the attacking spiders hard enough for it to crack audibly, so strong that Caleb fears it might break in half, but the way it shines almost, a pale green, tells him that it's enchanted heavily, and with care. It's much stronger than it looks. As is the man, clearly.

“Oh, so that's what that noise up there was. You all mind giving me a hand?” He asks, his rich voice warm despite their generally dangerous appearance. Caleb swears he sees Nott swoon, then tries not to think about that particular observation at all.

Yasha doesn't take even a moment to register his words, already halfway across the room before she's pulled her greatsword into her hands, a bellowing shout leaving her chest just as she swings, the solid metal grinding through the soft flesh of a spider coming up onto the unknown mans flank, splashing her with yet more icor and making Jester gag even as she runs closer, Fjord and Beau hot on her heels.

Together they make quick work of the few stragglers that the spellcaster failed to get before they'd arrived, Caleb and Nott providing a distraction, Mollymauk weaving deftfully in and out of combat in a flurry of colors and jeering remarks in Infernal, Jester spouting babbled nonsense in response while her hammer crushes the spindly legs of the monsters too daft to see her lithe form as a threat. Beau and Fjord take positions on the outside of the group, keeping them from running, and Yasha cleaves her way through the main group like a charging bull. For the most part, the stranger just takes this time to catch his breath.

It's only once the chittering of the vile creatures subsides does Caleb let the fire in his hands fizzle into nothing, and take a good look around.

It's a large room, just as or if not bigger than the previous room they'd found themselves in, yet more broken furniture dotting the area and rubble all around, perhaps from the gnolls, perhaps from the explosion, it's hard to tell. The magelight casts eerie, long shadows across the others, but with the darkness pressing in, he can't help but feel just a little secure. Until he sees the massive pit in the ground, in which he yelps and draws everyone's attention to him, his hands wringing themselves together mindlessly in search of a grounding touch. It's unusual for him to be so spooked, but the idea of falling is easily a very terrifying prospect, and Nott being halfway across the room poking around in a chest with no care for conversation aside from to keep an (appreciative) eye on the stranger isn't helping.

He knows he can't be so dependent on her, on the heat of Mollymauk or even the way Jester is clearly willing to press herself against his side in search of comfort as well. But he doesn't have anything else. He won't risk Frumpkin in the unstable mine, and he's always relied on Nott for such things. Can he keep doing that, when it's no longer just the two of them?

Since when was that even a given path for them to take?

“Alright then?” Mollymauk asks, so much closer than before that he jumps and has to steady himself on the tieflings shoulder. He's blanked out, then, but the others aren't watching him anymore, and by the way Jester keeps looking at him as discreetly as possible, he has a feeling that has something to do with the blood hunter as well. It's terribly difficult to stop himself from latching on when the man just keeps pushing.

“I, hm, yes. Maybe.” Caleb answers, voice cracking for a moment, then smoothing out as he tries in vain to keep that facade on. He knows he's been had, it's as if those eyes can take him apart and see everything he's tried so hard to hide for years now. Tirich could do the same, and it always made him feel better. He never had to hide, the God just wanted to know what he needed, that was all. It's as if Mollymauk is trying to do the same thing. He isn't so sure he wants to let him.

The other doesn't believe him, not by the way his mouth flattens and his ears press back, but he says nothing, only turns his head back to the cluster of people speaking to the stranger. He's relaxed now, leaning against his staff and smiling down at a flustered goblin. Something about the scene makes him want to smile, knowing that maybe she can find happiness in another, someone that can love her in a way that he can not. She has body issues, and has always been seemingly uninterested in people romantically. He knows that she does not feel sexual attraction, and he's always been supportive of that, but she has never said anything about romantic attraction, it's always in her interactions, it's not set in stone. Is Caleb the reason she doesn't try to find someone? Is he holding her back, forcing her to stay with him just so he'll eat and take care of himself? It's just another thing to worry himself into knots about.

“His name is Shakäste. He's a druid, he has a familiar, it's a hummingbird named...something. Just call it the Grand Duchess I guess.” Mollymauk informs him, finally, tail winding itself pleasantly around the wizard's calf, enough to steady him, just a little. He can see the little bird buzzing around Yasha's head, no doubt curious about the rather tangled mess of hair she has braided. For the most part, the woman seems pleasantly surprised by the attention.

A strange name for a strange man, but then there's someone in their group called ‘Mollymauk’ so perhaps not the strangest he's ever heard. And what would he know anyway? He's just called Caleb. Compared to the others, he's rather...plain. Ignoring his background anyway.

Were Tirich to see him now, he'd probably weep.

“I, right, okay. Thank you.” He whispers in response, just as they reach the others and the druid turns his milky white eyes onto Caleb, kindness etched deep into the lines of his face. He's handsome even in his age, and Caleb has to wonder what he looked like when he was younger, if age has taken away that youthful beauty some have or if he's more like a fine wine.

“Ah, and you're Caleb then, the little lady has been telling me about you. You’re a wizard?”

“Uhm, yes. Druid, how's that for you?” It's not the most eloquent way to phrase it, but he feels itchy with everyone glancing at him.

As if reading his mind, Shakäste smiles, lips upturning warmly and raises a hand not clutching the staff, the sleek blue hummingbird taking her attention away from Yasha and moving quick as lightning to his finger, a little tweet escaping her at his attention and effectively taking everyone's eyes off him.

By his side, Jester gasps and tries very hard not to squeal in delight, her hands balled into fists and pressed tight to her lips. The Grand Duchess is a beautiful bird, but he's always preferred snakes and cats, personally.

“Quite well, however folks, it's been a pleasure meeting everyone, but I've got a lower level to check for people and it don't sit well with me, wasting time like this.” Shakäste says, bringing the bird to his shoulder and straightening his posture, his smooth magic flaring back up in the air, making Caleb's nose twitch at the rush of forest smells. Druids always have that earthy scent to their magic, but he isn't quite used to how it feels on his skin or curling in his lungs.

“We've been contracted to bring who we can back, actually. You wouldn't mind teamin’ up with us for a bit, would you?” Fjord inquires, gruff voice about as pleasant as it can be with smoke still clogging the air.

“Now, that I would not. Better to have more help and all that.”

“Marvelous! I should inform you however, that these spiders aren't your run of the mill giant spider. We've cause to believe Lolth is behind their presence, and one of her little minions is down there somewhere.” Mollymauk hums, his tail mindlessly making soft motions against Caleb's leg, his voice just as flat as usual. He can't tell if it's disturbing or calming at this point.

Shakäste doesn't look particularly surprised, his fingers tightening where they hold the staff but otherwise he makes no outward show of emotion. “Knew something was wrong with them. Giant spiders don't act like that, they're real skittish, especially around druids and clerics. Even if you're wrong, something's happened to make them as bold as the gnolls themselves.”

Yasha grunts, her eyes straying to the door to the left, something like concentration passing over her face. “Have you checked the rooms for people?” She asks, hand twitching, as if wanting to reach for her weapon, but holding herself back just in case.

The druid slowly shakes his head, then swiftly turns on his heel and makes his way across the room, passing a wary Nott and a partly distracted Jester as he goes. The door takes a bit to wrench open, but eventually he manages, and light from the still glowing orbs shines in, highlighting a child and, presumably, his mother, as well as an injured man clutching his side a little ways away from them. The mother cries out the moment she sees them, but Shakäste is quick to shush her soothingly, not making a move closer but beckoning nonetheless. Caleb tries not to be in the way, because truthfully, he isn't particularly interested. Glancing at them occasionally gives him as much information as he needs. He isn't good with children or distressed people, and he'd only further hinder any healing Jester performs on the man.

He can already tell there's nothing of interest in the other makeshift cell by the lack of noise and the very obvious stench of decay. It's not particularly hot in the mine, but whatever poor bastard ended up in there has clearly been there for longer than they've been in Alfield. He supposes that just says something about the foulness of gnolls, and the strange ravenous hunger they exhibit so much. He has a hunch that the ones in town were far from normal compared to their scattered kin, however. Hunger, the clear driving force behind everything they did, can't have possibly been natural. Not that it matters anymore, he supposes. Whatever was down here originally has clearly been eliminated by the spiders and their leader. He just has to hope whatever moved in isn't worse.

Nott hides herself away underneath his coat, suddenly, and he stills his startled heart. He hadn't heard her approach, but he still brings a hand up to settle between her shoulder blades and let's her settle against his side despite the slight irritation, amused to feel her slip a coin purse into one of his many pockets. He has a feeling she didn't get that from one of the chests.

Being as inconspicuous as he can be, Caleb pauses beside the pit, head cocked to hear her but not taking his eyes away from the darkness that his eyes rapidly attempt to adjust to. He can't see anything but vague shapes of bones, it's not interesting or fruitful, but whatever she has to tell him, it's not meant for the others to hear. Then again, he's almost certain Mollymauk will hear it anyway. He can't bring himself to be anxious about it.

“Caleb, I think...I think we should stay with them. We haven't gotten to talk about it but-”

“I know, I agree. There's, hm, I want answers from one of them, and it's good for us, I think, to have bigger numbers. If they become a problem, we will just disappear, ja?” He cuts her off, affectionately tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear that he can feel but can't see, his eyes still locked onto the ground, though he can all but sense her own upon him.

“Disappear with their gold too, right, Caleb?”

At that, he snorts, unable to bring himself to hide it away into a cough. Off to the side of the group still formed around the rescued townsfolk, Mollymauk's glittering ruby red eyes catch his, and he can see those fangs stretch into a sly grin reflecting the light of the orbs, making them stand out all the more.

“I think we shall disappear with far more than their gold, liebling, but yes. We'll stay, so long as they'll have us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotta be honest, I've had a horrible month so far. I had fights with my best friends, some asshole was pulling smth with one of them, I've been in pain for the past two days with rapid mood swings, my dog is sick, it's been a mess, but that's no excuse for how. Lackluster this chapter is. This fic and writing in general is my passion and even if you lovelies aren't upset with me, I'm upset with myself. Hopefully getting this chapter out, that's struggled with me for so long, will have me on a better path and I can get back to actual quality though! Next chapter is an absolute rollercoaster. Finally we get team bonding, Molly/Caleb interactions that's lowkey an excuse to not have to write Mollymauk instead of Molly, and More Cute Nott Moments.
> 
> Also!! My memory is literal garbage, and I don't have the time to comb through a 3 hour long episode for small details on the mine, so please be a little lenient on any errors, I've tried keeping it accurate I promise.
> 
> On to the next chapter!


	7. Gimme That Swing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to write all of this again so a basic rundown: my mom was in critical condition in the hospital at the beginning of January, she just kept getting sicker and no one knew why (we do now and she's okay! She'll be coming home today!) Nearly losing her really fucked my life over for awhile but I wrote about 7k words in 4 hours out of desperation so for spelling mistakes and the fact that I have no energy to put the translations down...I'm sorry. I love you all for your patience.

(-You, gave me diamonds and gold, a heart that was easily sold, fell for your lies, dangerous charm, set myself up for a fall-)

The first few years of isolation in the Pit had been spent speaking to people long dead and attempting not to get caught casting what small amounts magic he could summon with so little food. The guards do not talk to you unless you need to be pulled in for ‘questioning’, and the others are so beaten down or apathetic that they won't talk to you either. He'd learned quickly not to even try, eventually, and had resorted to the ghosts he knew his mind was creating for some semblance of socialization. Living with a big family meant he'd always had someone, and then everyone was gone, dead, burnt away and unable to even be fucking buried, and he had nothing for so long that he'd lost count. He doesn't even know how old he is, anymore.

Speaking to Nott, finally, after pulling himself out of his own head to appease that tiny spark of curiosity, was perhaps the first time he'd spoken to anyone alive in years, and she didn't have much to say either, perhaps out of mistrust, or fear, or, more likely, both. It had taken them awhile, even after helping each other escape, to fully put their wariness behind them.

Nott is all hard angles, sharp claws that touch him like he's glass to be handled with care and teeth like little razors that always had the threat of sinking into his throat those first few months. Where once she wanted to be a feral dog fed up with the abuse and willing to attack the unfamiliar, she now strives so desperately to be tame, to take those animal/angry/natural urges and twist them onto everyone else, to be the gatekeeper to his castle with fury and hisses and the bitter copper tang of blood in her mouth. She rages against her nature, but sometimes, when they need it, she uses it like it was meant to be used.

Caleb glances at her over the campfire, taking in the open way she shows her features, as if having forgotten her terror at being discovered, her disgust her own people, the way she can't quite stop smiling and hasn't since he'd agreed to stay, and he thinks, ‘Even if this turns sour, at least I've made her happy.’

She's all he has, technically, even with the others possibly on their side. He loves her as if she were a sister he's never had, and he'd do anything to keep her happy.

With Mollymauk's thigh pressed warmly against his leg, he hopes, in the spot deep in his heart that he barely listens to anymore, that maybe they can add someone else into their family.

“You're smiling.” Nott whispers, her voice lilting with pleasant surprise, her hands cradling Anastasia, as he's learned the birds name to be. The fire casts shadows onto her face, but even in the darkness of night, he can see her luminescent yellow eyes peering out at him from underneath tangled black hair.

He tugs her hood higher over her head and snorts when she scowls at him, her unwillingness to disturb Shakäste's familiar showing in the way she forces her body not to shake and roots herself down so she doesn't move the bird even an inch. It's kind of adorable.

“You are too, liebling, but even with that handsome druid over there I still can't imagine what it is that has caught your attention so.” He whispers to her, then has to lean further into Mollymauk's space to avoid her abrupt use of mage hand, the goblins squawk of indignation drowned out by Caleb's laughter. Even when the tiefling shifts to let him lean more comfortably sideways, he can't bring himself to become uncomfortable or awkward. Something about the moment feels too good to be spoiled. Maybe it's the relief from the now safe hostages, the warmth seeping into his bones from the campfire, the ever steady gaze of the moon in all her pale glory, or perhaps, it's the soft background voices of the others gathered around with him. Always there is noise in the villages they tromp through, but never such acceptance, even if reluctant in its offering, there's never a giggling blue tiefling intent on making up wild stories about her strange hybrid weapon or a peacock of a man willing to carve himself a place into Caleb's personal bubble through sheer stubbornness alone. It feels like an attempt at home. Not quite there, but almost.

He hopes they let him stay.

“So, Caleb, what is with your funny accent?” Jester pipes up over his thoughts from where she sits across from him over the fire, suddenly, both crashing his inner peace and interrupting the flow of conversation around them. He'd be wary, if it were coming from anyone but Jester. As it is, her friendly grin and curious gaze only makes him warm up to her all the quicker.

“I could say the same about you. It is Zemnian, the language that I speak. You do not know it, then?”

She stretches her legs out in front of her as far as she can without outright shoving them into the fire and shakes her head sadly, as if he were disappointed by such a thing. “No, I do not. I did not get out much as a little child. It is a pretty language, though! Mollymauk knows it too, don't you Molly?”

Caleb can feel the slight vibrations through his side as the tiefling hums and absentmindedly cuts now loose threads off the bottom of his coat with his claws, his ears twitching occasionally as if he just can't help but be hypervigilant. Despite how distracted he appears to be, his situational awareness must be through the roof. He wonders what sort of horrors the man must have seen in his life to be in such a state, unable to calm down. Definitely far worse than anything Caleb himself has laid eyes on. He doesn't know what's out there, but it must be a true living breathing nightmare to make Molly as apathetic as he is when he thinks no one is watching, like emotions aren't real and instead can be painted on like makeup every morning.

“I do, but I prefer speaking Infernal, dear, you know that.”

“You speak all kinds of languages, not just those three! You said so during the circus stuff! Oh, can we hear one?! Please?!”

His dexterous hands don't stop even as the subtle movements of the rest of his body pauses for a moment, unnatural, like a child’s wooden toy. Caleb doesn't think about that too much. At this point, ‘unsettling’ might as well be one of Mollymauk's key personality traits.

“Mm, alright, I'll speak...hm...the language the creature in the mine was speaking. At the very least I think you lovely people should hear it from someone with a prettier mouth.”

This, at least, interests him far more than the way the firelight reflects off of Mollymauk's glimmering jewelry, and he turns his eyes away to the tieflings face instead. He knows Infernal, Celestial, Sylvan, Zemnian, and Common as well as a bit of Goblin thanks to Nott, but the guttural, slimy language his mind so violently rejected in the mine was unfamiliar. Despite this, if he tries to reflect on the hazy words themselves, they almost make sense. Something connected to Infernal maybe? Certainly not any of the others he is fluent in.

“To raczej brzydki język. Wolę Infernala.”

Abyssal, then.

The words fail to make him want to curl in on himself or push that natural instinct of wrong/unsafe/danger into his head, which isn't too surprising. You have to have intent when using Infernal for it to have an impact, and apparently, Abyssal is much the same. The language still makes something uneasy prickle across his skin, like the threatening yet light touch of claws, but such a thing is undoubtedly never going to go away unless he somehow transforms into a tiefling or demon and acquires their natural resistance.

Fjord looks thoughtful, falchion resting against his shoulder as he runs a wet cloth down the blade. He's been the quietest of the group since settling down, other than Yasha, who hasn't spoken at all. Caleb has to wonder what goes through the half orcs mind at times. He isn't like Caleb, who has so many facades you'd have to guess which is his real face, probably multiple times, or Mollymauk, who seems so versed in evasion that getting anything out of the man when he doesn't want to tell you is likely impossible. In fact, Fjord reminds Caleb of the soldiers that would come stomping through the village when he was younger, before it all went to shit, with their war born confidence in their own strength and the confined idea that their newfound status gave them a hand over the common folk, made them better somehow. But his demeanor, the way he portrays himself as a little slow or unobtrusive and friendly, it all rings a little fake to him, a mask to cover hidden plans or goals. Maybe they're all like that a little. Yasha is someone he can't read and isn't particularly interested in doing so due to her clear allegiance to Mollymauk, the man in question is even harder to understand but who's partial loyalty seems to lay in Caleb for now, Jester seems genuine at the very least, and Beau is brash but..empty. She doesn't seem to have a goal at all. It doesn't matter, anyway. She's a monk, and if her order conflicts with his own, he won't hesitate to cut her down. But then, he can't exactly criticize, either. 

At the end of the day, the group is another tool for him to use to achieve his goal. He won't complain if sticking with them gets him a genuine bond of trust, of course, but if it doesn't, no sweat off his back. He's good at hiding. Taking Nott and simply disappearing into the darkness of night isn't impossible, and though he'd prefer to avoid that right now with his in within the group, it isn't out of question either. There's always the chance of being able to steal all the gold from this little venture and running with it, too. At the end of the day, it depends upon their actions.

“Sounds familiar, other than from the mine,” Fjord says, one corner of his lip downturned in displeasure, “I don't know when, or where, or from who, but I've heard it before.”

Caleb's eyes narrow, but he says nothing, despite wanting to. The chances of some supposed sailor having heard fluent Abyssal is unlikely no matter where it is he traveled to on the job. Infernal, certainly, but Abyssal? Abyssal is the language of the lower demons. Even tieflings aren't versed in it. It's not a dead language, but it's not exactly popular among men either. So that leaves the question, of course, as to why a simple man like Fjord would ever know a damn thing about a corrupted language spoken almost solely by demons. Mollymauk is obvious, he's a blood hunter, a demon killer, any knowledge of their kind will give him a leg up above the competition, could mean the difference between life and death. But a sailor?

The more the tiny pieces of the puzzle surrounding this group falls into his hands, the more he finds himself craving more, more knowledge, more of their stories. It's a dangerous curiosity.

“You've heard Abyssal before? Interesting. It's a rare language amongst you...surface dwellers.” Mollymauk starts, hesitates, then seems to settle with a wince.

“Really, man? ‘Surface dwellers’?”

He has to agree with Beau. It's a strange thing to name them, but then, Caleb isn't entirely convinced that was what he was going for in the first place.

“You'll have to forgive me, monk, I'm not exactly as bright eyed as I was before attempted mind control from a God.” The tiefling spits, tail lashing near Caleb's leg, but he only looks vaguely irritated, like a human with a fly buzzing about their food. It fits, unsurprisingly. Everything about Mollymauk says “superior”. That does make him wonder about the strange sense of loyalty he's been awarded. Surely it must mean Mollymauk wants something? But he has so very little to offer.

“Now, now, there ain't no reason for all this, we got these kind people out! I say we should all be allowed a little happiness over that, no?”

Caleb raises his head, eyes straying from the tail winding itself around his hand to Shakäste, who's finally broken away from the tearful group of survivors and settled on the other side of Nott, lit pipe in hand, Anastasia on his shoulder now instead of in the goblins lap.

He seems younger in the warmth of the fire, like the heat bleaches away the wrinkles and signs of age. The beauty still remains, clearly, if Nott's beaming smile is anything to go by. He doubts the druid will stay with them, but he's pleased for his companion nonetheless. She deserves something nice like love or infatuation in her life.

“Yes, exactly right, birdman! We should be having fun, not worrying about the mine God! Besides, if any of you are worried, I will just ask the Traveler to protect you.” Jester smiles, entire body bouncing with excitement, tail curling mindlessly around Beau's foot, not that the monk seems to pay it any mind. Perhaps she is used to it.

“Traveler? Your own God, then?” Caleb inquires, carefully running his fingers along the sharp point of the tieflings tail. He can't really help himself or his curiosity. If she, too, worships an outlawed God, perhaps they are not so different after all.

The cleric smiles at him warmly even over Beau’s groan of dismay and pulls a sketchbook out of the bag slung across her shoulder, flipping through pages frantically until coming to a stop about halfway through. When she turns it around to show him, he lets himself smile back, just briefly. It's a man in a dark green robe, red hair just visible under the hood, his posture relaxed, confident. Unlike the other little drawings on the previous page, the God is as detailed as possible, with no other doodles on his own page. His face isn't shown, but he feels welcoming all the same.

“This is the Traveler! I worship him by drawing things in this sketchbook for him or playing pranks! I also have a speech memorized on why you should worship him, would you like to hear it, the word of the Traveler?”

“No, absolutely not! You've told all of us individually, Jes, please don't do it again.” Beau huffs, leaning back on her hands and looking much like she'll dart away if he says yes.

Jester doesn't even pause, just blindly smacks the disgruntled monk on the leg with the book and goes back to watching him. He'd say yes if it didn't feel like blasphemy, just to please her.

“Ah, there is no need, I follow my own God, Jester. But thank you. I am glad I'm not alone.” He murmurs, voice soft, and only stops himself from being dragged back into that trap of grief by Nott's hand in his own and Mollymauk's body heat.

“Yeah? I'd say the Knowing Mistress by the look of you.” Shakäste says, though it's more of a question.

“Perhaps it fits me as a person, but that is quite far from the truth. His name is...long, and hard to pronounce without offense. I just call him Tirich.” He responds, soft and fragile. There's a sadness to his words that isn't meant to be there, and he knows the others pick up on it, from the way Jester frowns to the way Mollymauk sighs quietly under his breath and scoots a little closer. At least they don't push.

“Tirich, Tirich, Tirich...nope, never heard of him. What's he the God of?”

So much for that.

Caleb snorts, shakes his head, and stretches his legs out in mimicry of Jester, ignoring the soft mewl of protest from behind him when the movement pushes Frumpkin away from the warmth of the spot he's curled himself into. “Well, had you asked him, he'd have given you some roundabout answer, probably said something about beauty, then railroaded over the conversation into a new subject. He never did quite like answering questions about his Godhood.”

Fjord pauses, clearly having been listening before, but now he looks...confused, his eyes darting up to Caleb and away from the spotless blade in his hands.

“Wait--”

“Can we not talk about this anymore?”

Mollymauk's voice is sharp, and it's only now that Caleb realizes the other is visibly annoyed. His tail is still as can be where it lays comfortingly in his palm, but his claws dig deep into the ground beneath them and his lips curl unpleasantly at the corners, as if speaking of Gods is an offense to him. Perhaps, with such a dreary profession, it is. He can't help but be relieved. It's an interrogation, or will be if Fjord keeps going. Something tells him the half orc only stops to avoid the unnecessary fight, and that the conversation is far from over. Hopefully he'll be ready when it comes up again. If not...

Yasha, from her spot beside Mollymauk, lays a hand over the tieflings leg, an anchor, or maybe, a reminder.

“Yes, yes, I know, Yash. Just lay off Caleb, alright? Now's hardly the time anyway. We've had our rest, now, I say we head back down. She won't wait for us forever. Spiders like her are predators. Eventually, she'll come to us, whether we like it or not.” He says, like it's an indisputable fact, something he knows for sure. Mollymauk is an unending well of mystery, and even over the rush of gratitude that swells in his chest, he finds his brain filing away yet another fact. Has he had dealings with the malevolent Gods? It would certainly explain some things. But it also has implications. Later, he'll think on it all.

Later.

Unsurprisingly, Shakäste wearily nods his head in agreement, white hair an almost luminescent blue in the moonlight. “I can't say I know much about these Gods and monsters you all seem to deal with, but I know the wilds, and I know animals. Your colorful friend is right, unfortunately, and we don't want her comin’ up here where the common folk are.”

Though Fjord still watches Caleb, his gaze uncomfortably intense, he rolls his shoulders and gets up, only taking his eyes away to help Jester rise to her feet.

“Alright then, y'all, let's head back down, and be careful. We don't know what else she's got in store for us.”

~°~  
Packing up, getting unsteady well wishes from the freed prisoners and dousing the beacon of a fire takes very little time and is spent completely silent, the foul mood Mollymauk has descended into influencing them all like a storm cloud pelting down on them. His tail thwacks painfully against the stone passages of the mine as they go back to meet the beast at the heart of it all, but he doesn't even seem to register it. Caleb decides it's best not to mention it. He isn't entirely sure it won't get him snapped at.

The same, unsteady walk back down the annoyingly, almost familiar mines gives him time to reflect on things, too, time to think about what he'd rather push to when he isn't forced to pay attention lest he run into someone or hold up the warmth of Mollymauk close behind him.

Perhaps it's not so good to ruminate on just how amusing it is that Fjord is so hostile towards him because he's suspicious when the sailor himself is easily one of the bigger mysteries amongst them. Nothing quite beats Mollymauk, obviously, but he barely counts. Though it amuses him, it hardly makes him like the half orc more, maybe even less instead. The other is perhaps the biggest downside of staying with the group.

In truth, though, they're all just a bunch of misfit bastards with suspicious motives. With a bit of a stretch, he'd even call it charming.

Only if he stretches, though.

“Darling, stop here for a moment.” Mollymauk whispers, tail flicking with agitation behind him.

They're all spread out in the last room they'd reached where Shakäste was, the dancing lights extinguished already, and another flick of his fingers lights up the area once more.

Nothing has changed, visually. There's still the stinking corpses and broken furniture, the same rubble from whatever explosion the druid had felt necessary to make that he cares not to focus on, and that same blasted pit that makes his mind flare with panic all over again.

Sound wise, however, is a different matter.

Just below the ragged breathing of Beau, who's body angles away from the spiders as much as possible without being obvious and Jester's anxious muttering in Infernal, he hears a voice, quiet and horrible and reaching, digging into his head and trying to pluck control from his grasp, so different from the caress of Tirich that started from the spine and covered his mind like a warm blanket. He didn't force control away. He asked, he made sure Caleb was safe and okay with it.

The Spider Queen does not ask. She isn't even capable of it.

‘Co masz nadzieję tutaj zrobić?’

It's like a hiss, legs crawling up his spine and digging painfully into his head, spinning web after web, a veritable net, he's trapped and can't breathe and unable to move his limbs, like a thousand single toxins have flooded his veins and it hurts, gods does it hurt, make it stop, he thinks, tries to say, but his lips won't move, his throat closes up and he can't see the others anymore, can hear Jester screaming, but its muted, like his ears are stuffed with cotton.

Something trickles past the strings, like water, dark as night and almost furious, it pools in his head and submerges his conscious, soothing his panic, a balm to a wound, a cat curling against his neck, fingers held loose around his throat like all his fantasies come to life, the knowledge of control and the threat of punishment or reward. It wants in, and he thinks, ‘It can't be as bad the violation already wrought.’

He opens his mind, and let's go.

~°~

There's a memory playing out in front of him, but he's to the side, away from the spotlight, an interloper in the scene. He can't see or feel or even hear anything beyond the inward look into his mind. Perhaps he is trapped, but even the dread from that thought is dulled.

His twelve year old self sits at the edge of the Wood, face open and happy in a way he doesn't recognize anymore. There's still that trace of fatigue, the echoed remembrance of that single night when Tirich had failed. He knows why, knows, now, years later, that Tirich is hardly the omnipresent entity in its entirety. He's just a piece, a seed planted hundreds of years ago. His true form is endless and unthinkable. To descend upon the world as he is would be to devour it whole.

He sleeps above him instead, the infinite expanse of space, the nothing between the glimmering stars and distant planets. There was no possible way for him to have stopped those events. It doesn't sting anymore, not like it used to. The morality, the humanity, of his God is confusing at best and enough to send him into an existential crisis at worst.

But his kid self doesn't know about that, and certainly won't entertain it either. To him, Tirich is a singular creature, and he believes himself to know all. The confidence of a child is a thing to behold, he supposes, distantly.

He watches the shadows slink out, grasping his other self's feet then dissipating just as quickly when he tries to grab them, a game, laughter ringing out through the dead silence of midnight. He remembers this, but the presentation of it now when he's so blocked from viewing reality is cruel, like bitter stomach acid heavy on his tongue, unable to be washed away. Is it the foreign being in his mind? Or the machinations of the Spider Queen? To show him Tirich, but only the barest glimpse, a happier time before it all burned away because of a single fucking man teaching his students a lesson, it's a form of psychological torture only the depths of his mind would come up with, and only on other people.

Is it a lesson? Or has his mind finally broken? In a way, almost, tentatively, as if his instincts have spotted movement in the darkness of a room but haven't figured out if it's a person or not, it feels like a warning.

The inky substance that seeped into Caleb’s head in reality curves through his mind, prodding, and the memory swirls together like paint on a canvas, obstructing the view of himself, the trees, and the peering darkness, then vanishes altogether. Tirich, slipped through his fingers all over again. He has the inane urge to laugh, to laugh and laugh until his throat is raw, and scream into the darkness of his own mind until it shatters or he escapes.

But he doesn't, and with a tug in his mind, like someone perusing through his head has found his string and decided to play with him, reality bleeds back in, and he takes control once more.

~°~

Caleb takes stock of five different things he can hear.

One, Jester's panicked Infernal that feels like further invasion, a reminder of the memory that burns through his body and makes his teeth ache from the pressure he's applying with his jaw.

Two, disgusting squelching noises that echo across-no. Bounce off tunnel walls. He doesn't recall moving. He doesn't recall much of anything, right now.

Three, bird wings, fluttering frantically in front of him, like tons of butterflies taking flight all at once. It's a pleasant mental image, and one he tries to focus on.

Four, Mollymauk's cooing, not the threatening (looming), angry (furious), and scary (familiar) kind, the one always used at the strangest of times. No, it's the one from the alley and the softer moments in between Then and Now. It makes his throat hurt less and his eyes struggle to open against the onslaught of Too Much all at once.

Five, his own screaming.

As he becomes aware of it, he cuts it off, abrupt, but it goes on in the darkness, a sharp remnant of his own misery that makes his head ache something awful.

Caleb's throat burns from the strain, and he sucks in deep gulps of air he clearly hadn't been taking as he was pulled out of the once pleasant nightmare in his own head. There's no noise now, not like before. No combat, no spiders scuttling, just Jester making some sort of whining noise of fear from in front of him and Mollymauk's unending muttering in Zemnian he thinks is a prayer of forgiveness, but there's no deity it's directed at. In that detached little area of his mind where he's all but shoved himself into to escape the chasing grief, he thinks that it's odd for someone like Mollymauk to ever lower himself in such a way. His prayer is meaningless when not pushed at any particular God anyway. Maybe it's just for the comfort of it. He feels like he could use a little of that, actually, and has to swallow down another cry of agony. He's already lost any pride he may have had, so showing this to the others doesn't even register as shameful, but the pain it would cause him like fire in his throat isn't worth it.

“Caleb?”

Nott? Yes, Nott, the voice comes from below, and has that rough texture to it that he's grown so fond of.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Oh.

He blinks, and is met with two red eyes, as close to his face as possible without being poked by Caleb's nose or an unfortunate tangle of hair and jewelry.

Mollymauk, who looks…guilty, and upset, and maybe a little grief stricken. He'd question it, but everyone aside from Jester and Fjord look the same way, kind of, so maybe he wasn't the only one dealing with his demons.

Nott is curled up tightly against his legs, a dangerously still Frumpkin stiff in her arms, mask firmly in place that does little to hide the evident quiver in her voice. He's too tired to point it out anyway.

Off to the left side of the tunnel is a visibly distraught Jester, her eyes wet and wide and scared, like a child during a thunderstorm, and all he wants to do is share in her terror, a futile yearning for yet more comfort he wouldn't be able to deny her. Fjord leans heavily against her back, his head digging into the rocky wall uncomfortably, though he hardly seems to notice or care.

Beau and Yasha stand together in the front with Shakäste, all three looking as put together as possible. If Beau's hands shake or Shakäste's mouth quivers, no one seems to notice.

But Caleb's attention is all on Mollymauk. He looks like he's seen war, all shock and whispered prayers and clutched hands, a veritable priest in a temple. It makes his stomach roil as if they were on a boat. Worship doesn't fit Mollymauk.

Not like this, anyway.

Their hands are tangled together so tightly he can see his skin turn white and feel his bones protest quietly, but the warmth his soul desperately tries to soak in from the other is worth the vague impression of pain, of claws sinking deep into his knuckles.

“What...w-what happened?” He asks, finally, coughing through it halfway despite himself. He needs water and a long soak in a warm bath, but they can't afford to go back now, not with their destination so close. He doesn't know how he knows that she's close. It's like something dug into his skull but couldn't bother picking up their own pieces, just left part of their self behind. Unnatural knowledge he doesn't know the origin of. His stomach protests at the thought, the sick feeling of wrong that screeches in his head. What else did it leave inside of him?

“She tried to take control again. I had to pull you out.” Mollymauk says against their intertwined fingers, pressing them taught against his lips, eyes closing on their own, a dip in his brow to express displeasure when Caleb instinctively attempts to shy away from the contact but can't quite manage.

‘Stranger.’ His body protests.

‘Familiar.’ His mind replies, a tug of war between two different bone deep instincts. Just another thing wrong with him that he can't figure out.

A pulsing behind his left eye flares, then dissipates entirely when the tiefling let's his hands drop and steps away to a respectable distance. A flickered attempt at remembrance of a man he's never met, but there's nothing there.

He can't quite push down that burn of acidic disappointment anyway.

“You were gone, more than everyone else. Whatever she did to hurt you, whatever memory she stuffed you into, it made a...loop, like a wheel. Rolling near endlessly until an outside force made it stop. I'm sorry if my interference hurt, but you weren't waking up like the others. You started screaming, and then...here we are!” The blood hunter grins, but it's fragile and worried and something else, sharp like a burst of fire.

Anger, Caleb realizes. It's anger.

The rapid fire twitching of his tail he can't quite stop. The tense way he sets his jaw even as he speaks. It's not hot and consuming and fast like Caleb's, doesn't burn all it touches. It's cold and hidden and brittle like ice and something about it tells him it's a very bad idea to look him in the eye right now, an animal instinct to bare his throat, submit and hope it's enough.

He wants to reach out and reassure, comfort, but even though his instincts say otherwise, he does not know this man, this new and unknown creature who hides behind easy touches and confidence. He flounders, and stays silent.

“Well, never mind all that. She knows you have someone like little ol’ me now. Her trick won't work a second time.” It's probably meant to be soothing, an offered measure of peace for Caleb to grab hold of like an anchor. He just has to wonder if it's truly meant for him, or for Mollymauk himself.

“How far away from her are we?” Nott questions quietly, finally removing her mask at the promise of safety, mentally anyway. There isn't much they can do to avoid a fight at this stage.

“Based on smell and sound? Just ahead. She is waiting, now, just as we are, but this is her game. If we stay here, we'll lose, and fast.”

Well so much for the cowards way out.

“Everyone ready then? I don't know what she did to y'all but we can't afford to sit here and twiddle our thumbs much longer.” Fjord calls back, over his shoulder as he guides Jester to the others, further away from where Mollymauk has all but tucked Caleb and Nott away, like a dragon and his gold.

“Shit, Fjord, you didn't feel that? Lucky bastard. Felt like someone took a mace to my skull then dropped a damn ice cube in it.” Beau's words are followed by a grimace that only shrinks when Yasha squeezes her shoulder, perhaps a touch too rough going by the following wince of (awed) pain.

Jester, still clearly shaken but bolstered by Fjord's presence, goes along with him, quiet distress tensing along her shoulders when he moves as if to get away from their contact. Though Caleb can tell she did not experience the things they did, it's clear she saw or felt something. Something like pity rises in his throat, but he squashes it all the same. They don't have time for heart to hearts right now.

Still, though, Mollymauk hesitates. His throat clicks audibly with the sound of a dry swallow, his usually teasing grin pursed in something like distaste or frustration, and Caleb can't quite bring himself to change their positions, to push past the blockade he has made with his very presence.

Wisely, Nott gathers Frumpkin onto her shoulders and darts around Mollymauk's legs, glowing yellow eyes watching them well until she's caught up with the rest of the group. Wary of an argument, but willing to let Caleb handle it on his own. Clearly he's underestimated how much Mollymauk has grown on her.

“I'm sorry, dearest. My intrusion was...chaotic. The memory I saw seemed pleasant and yet it caused you so much anguish. I may have rushed too much to get you out, and for that, I apologize.”

It's…not what Caleb was expecting. Anger over Caleb's inability to do it himself. Confrontation as to what the tiefling had apparently seen, maybe. But this?

“Why...w-why are you sorry? You helped me.” He gets out, but it hurts to speak and it's clear by the mortifying crack in his voice that he shouldn't be doing such a thing either way.

The blood hunter pauses, as if in thought.

“You need a healing potion, but we'll need them for what's to come. It's an internal wound, those are always tricky for outside healing too, and as sweet as Jester is I'd trust myself over her for your safety any day. Will you let me use my own magic to fix it?” The blood sacrifice necessary for it to work is silent in its implications, though Caleb is hardly put off by it.

It's not a question to be so worried about, and he can see right through the avoidance, but maybe Mollymauk has been met with far more suspicion and hatred in his time than Caleb is aware of. He can imagine why, admittedly. The tiefling is gorgeous, but so are some of the most venomous snakes. He's a ruby in appearance, but glass in everything else.

He wonders what that says about him and his growing affection, then.

“Ja, bitte.” Caleb murmurs his agreement to his companion and leans his head back against the wall they've clustered themselves towards, eyes fluttering shut to block out the gore, no matter how small, as if to pretend the other isn't willing to harm himself for his benefit. Blood and bone doesn't have as much of an effect on him as it once did, but he doesn't want to see his...friend take a knife to his own skin.

The scent of copper interlaced with vanilla hits his nose before anything else does, sudden and surprising despite the expected outcome, but it's the first touch of warm, slick fingers against his bared throat that makes him jump, something sparking in his stomach like the brief embers of magic jumping from his skin when he snaps his fingers, the taste of cool night air and something unfamiliar sliding down his throat like melted chocolate.

He's so vulnerable right now, Mollymauk's hot puffs of air so close to his face, with claws pressed so very lightly into his skin, far softer than he (wants) deserves. Just a little bit more grip, just a big enough squeeze, and they'd come away bloody, leaving him without breath and maybe even a little bruised. Something like this doesn't require trust, only desire and the nerve to go through with it.

This, though, is dangerous, this warmth and pressure that threatens to take root in his gut, at a time like this and with a man like Mollymauk who is knives hidden in darkness and pretty lies, who looks at everyone like a giant would look at a gnome. It's not the latent superiority Caleb finds desirable, but the look Mollymauk gives him and Nott in the quieter moments. A dragon admiring his hoard. It feels a little like belonging. Greed.

But right now? Want.

And then the palm pressed hot against the hollow of his throat stained red is gone, the almost but not quite thing fleeing as quickly as it had come.

Caleb’s eyes snap open, but the tiefling is already backing away. He doesn't even look like he's noticed anything, a soft smile on his lips with fangs just barely visible, so very pleased with himself and his healing.

“And there we have it, good as new. Do try not to get hurt again anytime soon, hm? I think it hurts me more than it hurts you.” Mollymauk's grins, all good natured teasing and friendly warmth again, undoubtedly because it's just them, for now.

Or perhaps he was wrong, and it's all in his head. At this point, does it even matter?

~°~

Nott bristles like an angered cat when they finally rejoin the group, her eyes lingering between Mollymauk's thin (healed?) cuts and the almost comically horrific bloody handprint still emblazoned across Caleb's neck, and even a shake of his head doesn't seem to take her out of the fit of a foul mood, her teeth bared in a snarl as she turns on her heel and sulks at his quick defense. Undoubtedly she's just put off by the danger she can't keep him from, but it still stings.

“Gods, Molly, did ya really have to go without wipin’ off your blood at least? He looks like he’s trying to scare kids during a festival or maybe he just killed a guy.” Fjord questions low in his throat, his brow furrowing in something like distaste. It's enough to make Caleb snort, at least, which doesn't earn him many brownie points. You win some you lose some.

“Ohhhh, physical contact healing! I did not know you could do that with blood magic!”

“It's a special little trick I've picked up on, I doubt you'd have heard of it, even if you had found someone like me. Not many of us tend to go into civilization much, after all, and we have a habit of developing our own modified skills. I knew someone who could turn his own blood sharp enough to impale a person once outside of his body.” The tiefling looks thoughtful as he answers Jester, and maybe it's a lie just to make her curious and happy, but it's, annoyingly enough, working on Caleb as well.

At the very front of the clustered group, Yasha pointedly coughs, her deep voice echoing in his bones like the sound of a war drum, and he's sure she'd like the comparison, if he told her. “There's an opening ahead. Are we ready?”

Despite the itch under his skin that begs that they leave now and rather desperately wants to be scratched, he nods and gives in to the inevitability. Even with all the confidence in the world that Mollymauk pauses, he can't bring himself to get over the fact that they'll be face to face with some sort of divinity soon. It's been a very long time since Tirich. ‘Better hope you haven't lost your manners then.’ He thinks to himself, then sinks in to the shared dread as they march onward.

The opening leads them to, surprise, yet another large cavernous room. The floor is devoid of webs but absolutely filthy with blood, both fresh and old, seemingly enough to fuel Mollymauk's powers for a lifetime if not more. It's evident just how many have died here in the way even the air feels tainted and stretched thin from the repeated and continuous presence of the Raven Queen, her divinity and the unnatural death a magical battering ram between this plane and everything beyond.

It's not even the gore that gives him pause, though.

It's the source of it.

The cavern ceilings are black and stretch upwards like a pit, no light of any sort reaching so high up, but the strings that stretch down are clear, further and further until they end in cocoons stuffed with corpses.

Some are old, most are recent, but every web is new, shiny and almost wet with something that smells foul above the pervasive scent of decay, dripping from wounds and bloating the bodies of the ones that can't drain, so full, like a pregnant stomach that looks ready to pop. It's disgusting, and bile rises so violently in his throat that he can only turn his head away and vomit as quietly as possible into a corner, dry heaving when he comes up empty. He's, suddenly, incredibly grateful for the healing to his throat, no matter the confusion the intimacy of the moment gave him. Stomach acid burns in all forms, but it'd hurt the most against a raw throat.

Off to the corner of the strangely well lit room where there are no torches or magelight, skittering erupts.

There's an almost towering shape hunkered in the shadows that the magic attempts to hide, but with his vision, he can see it clear enough. It's so torn apart that he can barely tell what it is. Some sort of monster, a creature of unknown origin and considerable power, brought low by the knee high tall spiders that dig their way out of the remaining flesh and protruding bones. An undoubtedly majestic beast reduced to food scraps for oversized bugs.

The spiders do not rush them as the others did, but instead press their blood covered bodies close against one in the middle of the room that makes them look as small as medium sized dogs, like pets, and maybe that's what they are to this thing. He's already thrown up, he'd really rather not think about it and have to start gagging again.

The spider body is to be expected, but the upper half is almost pleasant.

It, or perhaps, she, is what Mollymauk called a drider.

Her blonde, tangled rats nest of a hairstyle covers her nude breasts, her waist slim, her face noble, high cheekbones, angled chin, curved lips. She must have been a beauty before giving it all up to her God. For a moment, he even feels a sense of kinship, but it's washed away as she seemingly stutters to life, eyes opening to reveal a soft red light, her lips pulling back over overgrown fangs. Every movement she makes is unnatural, a second too late reaction time, and he realizes that whatever or whoever she was before this is gone, probably temporarily, but the unease still persists. She's a veritable puppet on display for all your voyeuristic tendencies, and it makes his head spin.

“I almost got tired of waiting, but here you are, bears into traps lured by the promise of meat.” She says, head losing control and slumping uncomfortably onto her shoulders as if her master did not care to pay attention to it.

Shakäste opens his mouth to speak, to maybe even reason with her, but Mollymauk doesn't even give him the chance.

A dagger slices through the air, the one from the gnoll what feels like years ago, and imbeds itself into the...woman's arm, and her head, no longer resting as if broken against her shoulder twists towards the tiefling, quick enough to make an uncomfortable snapping sound as it does. She looks confused, then delighted all at once, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of fury that has ripped through the blood hunters tightly controlled facade.

Caleb knows that kind of rage, of unfeeling bloodlust, and he doesn't hesitate to grab Nott with a hissing Frumpkin bundled up around her neck and the closest person to him that isn't the new presence of danger and press them all against the far left wall, his demeanor frantic enough to kick the others into movement as well until they've spread out across the room, leaving Mollymauk alone in the middle.

But he doesn't even notice, or, rather, he does, but he just doesn't care. ‘Something has set him off’, Caleb thinks, and wonders if he knew someone tangled up above them, or if this had just been building behind every wall the man has made until the final confrontation when he couldn't hold it in. Assuming they survive this, he isn't sure he'll even want to ask.

“Opuść to miejsce i mogę cię oszczędzić!” The tiefling hisses, tail slicing through the air so fast that Caleb is sure it'd be able to cut someone. The abyssal rings loud and distracting throughout the room, and he feels what turns out to be Jester clutch desperately at his coat, her horns bumping gently against his chin as she tries to suppress her quivering. Underneath her gasping breathing, he can hear her praying to the Traveler, but he knows, in this cursed place, that she will not get an answer. He takes her shaking hand into his and squeezes.

“To było tak długo, kochanie! Wszyscy byliśmy pewni, że jesteście w nieskończonym śnie!” The Spider Queen laughs, and oh that has to be her, the tone of her own abyssal making his body feel tight and his mind desperate to shy away once more, tuck itself into a bubble of safety lest she force herself back in where only one of her kind has ever belonged. She seems genuinely surprised, but without any knowledge of the language he can't tell what the conversation is even about. He thinks it's may be related to dreams, but that can't be right, surely.

“Nie porównuj mojej mocy do swojej własnej, ty, kurwa, wąż!”

Well at least one of those words Caleb can tell is a curse, but he doesn't have time to focus on that.

Subtly, the woman's fingers twitch, and the spiders begin to move towards the splintered groups, not attacking, not yet, but preparing. She has a plan.

“Jesteś tak samo gwałtowny, jak pamiętam. A może powinienem powiedzieć "ochronny"? Ten mały człowiek pachnie tobą.” She nearly whispers it, but it's enough to change that thinly controlled rage into blind murderous intent. Maybe it's a threat, or an insult, or a prod at a sore spot, but whatever held Mollymauk back fled his eyes the moment she'd uttered it.

His scream of fury pierces Caleb's skull like a knife, sharp enough to make him flinch, to make them all wince, and by the time he's pried his eyes open, the tiefling is gone, movements so fast it looks impossible, twin swords clashing angrily against an expertly held spear.

Her endless red eyes meet his from across the room, flickering until there's multiple ones spread across her unmarred face briefly, so different from Mollymauk's own, and then the spiders attack.

Four of them to each group should be easy enough to overcome, but they are relentless, undaunted by his fire and uncaring of wounds that are inflicted. Jester manages to push herself out of his shadow and slam the hammer side of her mace into ones leg, crushing it instantly, but it doesn't stop coming, just drags the broken limb along with it, as mindless as the driders body, and a whole new white hot rush of terror floods his veins.

Pain is what deters a man from pursuing you. Pain is what motivates fear, fight or flight, survival instinct. But that has been taken from these abominations.

Only death will stop them now, but even that seems almost out of reach.

“Ludzie są słabi, kochanie! Umrze, gdy tylko odwrócisz wzrok!”

A large brown one with beady black eyes and sharp looking barbs on it's furred legs seems to zero in on him, and he doesn't hesitate, calling his usually unused ice to the surface and gasping as it grows to a power he knows he isn't capable of, an ice spear the length and size of a small tree forming, then skewering it just as quickly. The furious blows traded between Mollymauk and the now silent drider do not stop, but even now he can feel her eyes on him, probing at a mind that doesn't and will never open to her willingly.

He isn't capable of such a thing. He never has been, and it'll take years before he ever will be. Something is wrong, be it with his body, his magic or the area itself. But it doesn't matter. Power is power.

“Taka moc dla kogoś tak słabego. Niemożliwy. Z pewnością on czerpie z ciebie?” She asks over a break in her guard, a wound appearing across her ribs and opening the skin so seamlessly it'd be impossible to tell if the driders insides didn't begin to...leak. Covered in gore, Mollymauk does not respond. He's too far gone for that.

Nott screeches something in goblin beside him and launches a sword half eaten at an incoming spider, leaving it blinded, and it stumbles and falls to a stop.

Were they not in battle, Caleb would pick her up and kiss her on the forehead.

“Nott, liebling, you are a genius! Bitte, everyone, blind them! Knives or sand or magic, it does not matter! They can not find you through any other sense!” He shouts, then darts past the creature, a flick of his wrist sending the beast into spasms as jolt after jolt of crackling white and blue electricity forms a sphere around it's body like a mockery of a shield and does it's job of containing it lest he be wrong. Two more remain, and he can see Shakäste struggle to keep them away from Jester, who has a deep gash in her side. It isn't a bite, thank Tirich, merely a stray leg having sliced right through her protective leather, but the blood seeping through her clutching fingers tells him all he needs to know. It's deep, it needs to be healed, and fast.

“Nie ma więzi! Co zrobiłeś? Nakarm go swoją krwią?! Jak go zmieniłeś?!”

There is a pause in combat between the two after her shriek, just long enough to be worrisome, but he can't spare the time to look, to confirm or deny his brief terror that the overconfident idiot of a man has gotten himself killed. The clashing renews, and he throws himself back into the fray.

He doesn't know what power it is that he calls to his hands, only that something in his stomach has taken root and purrs in his chest at his bid for more power, more more more. It spreads throughout his arms, leeches away his aches and his own magic that cries with exhaustion and all but takes over for a single, exhilarating moment, curling over him in a way that makes his knees buckle. Tirich, or something like him. Darkness. Void.

The spider closest to Shakäste shivers for one tiny second, and then dies with a sickening crunch, invisible force snapping every bone from the inside, forcing the broken things through muscle and skin until they stick out like some sort of sea urchin. He wants to throw up at the sight, but the magic curls in his stomach and around his throat like an imitation of the scene in the tunnel and steals even that away too.

The second spider turns to him, the red on her midnight black body a terrifying omen as to what exactly will happen to him if he's bitten, and she lunges just as--

“Nie wiem, dlaczego moja krew w nim tak bardzo cię przeraża, ale dzięki za wolną wskazówkę!”

At that final shout, the spiders grow still once more, the black widow falling harmlessly to the ground in front of him, dead, just as an almost agonizing wail starts and cuts off from the drider, her eyes a listless green, clouded over by terror and pain, an arm elbow deep pushed into her chest, then yanked out with the same viciousness the tiefling had hidden away for who knows how long.

Her body crashes to the ground right along with her black and reddish brown heart tumbling from Mollymauk's viscera covered hand. His shirt is torn and red with blood, his boots are spattered with ichor and somehow his coat is all but fine, but it's his face that reaches through to Caleb the most. Victorious, the smile on his lips tainted by the red running down the bridge of his nose from a cut across his forehead, but he looks unmistakably like someone who has dragged himself through torture and enjoyed every minute of it, of the pain and the pleasure at the end upon killing the one who inflicted it on him, like some sort of animal.

He looks feral.

“Jes?! Jester!” Fjord has moved, everyone has moved in fact, to the collapsed tieflings side, and it is only that shout that raises him from his trance, gaze still locked with the nearly invisible pupils he shouldn't be able to see in Mollymauk's eyes. He glances over, breath catching uncomfortably at the way Jester lays still in Fjord's arms, too tiny for her larger than life personality. Only the steady rise and fall of her chest keeps his own heart from stuttering. When he glances back up, Mollymauk is gone from the spot again, now sagging against the wall by the only exit, waiting for them.

Caleb is abruptly and overwhelming exhausted. His body hurts like he's just used a muscle he's let grow stagnant, pleasant but burning and something he isn't afraid to rid himself of. He's covered in all manner of substances, his magic is all but depleted to the point that he doesn't think he could bring it to the surface let alone cast anything, and he's, somehow, someway, hungry again. Even the sight of spider lady guts isn't turning him off the idea of stew. Or maybe he's finally becoming desensitized. About time.

Hastily, he discards the urge to throw his head back and laugh. The last thing they need is for him to lose his gods damned mind.

Really, what he wants right now, is a fucking bath.

A bounty for this adventure in attempted god slaying wouldn't hurt either.

~°~

Shakäste leaves them with a shake of his head, a missing coin pouch Caleb knows very well he slipped to a blushing Nott, and a bid for them to never come within fifty feet of him until they've all taken three different baths. They barely knew him, but Caleb has to say he'll miss the old man.

Probably not as much as Nott though.

Frumpkin had nearly thrown himself into a stream to get himself clean the moment they stepped out of the mine with a leaking sack filled with one drider head and countless amounts of ears that he had made sure he wasn't around to be forced into gathering, and now walks five feet away from the group to avoid any and all possible remnants of the battle. Caleb would feel offended, but at this point he understands, really, just how bad they must look and smell, based both on Frumpkin, and the horrified faces of the lingering Alfield villagers that have the audacity to watch and point. At least it won't be them that has to clean the gore off the streets. Serves them right.

The smell doesn't stop him from letting Yasha take nearly all of his weight, and she's easily worse than he is. Her entire front side is caked in blood and bits of spider flesh. The only thing she'd bothered cleaning was her sword “in case they were attacked and she needed it to come out of bodies quicker.” Beau looked both disgusted and charmed at the proclamation, which was kind of gross.

Jester slurs happily in Fjord's arms, high on too much blood healing all at once but not in pain so Caleb counts it as a win in his book, Nott argues pointedly with Beau about the price of a blood covered ring she'd pilfered off the driders corpse, and Mollymauk leads the pack through town, no longer holding the sack upon his shoulder but instead dragging it along the ground and leaving a trail of blood they all pointedly ignore behind, probably delighting in every bump and rock they encounter in the way that worsens the damage to the skull.

It's actually quite terrifying, but he's drank three stashed bottles of ale on the ride back already, and is unable to push himself out of that numb, peaceful place he's carved carefully into the possible trauma from the events in the mine. Compartmentalize. Otherwise known as cover his ears and pretend it didn't happen. Everything's fine.

He quietly begins singing about milk bottles under his breath, and that's how the town guard finds them, Jester giggling through a Zemnian song she doesn't know and messing it up so badly that it even seems to be annoying the infinitely joyful Mollymauk based on the way his jaw clenches every time she starts a new verse, everyone covered in some degree of black goo and blood, and Beau contemplating how far she'd be able to kick the driders head.

They're all trying very hard to pretend everything is fine, and he can't tell why over the now four bottles of ale. Maybe it has to do with the way the blood from Mollymauk's clothing occasionally seeps out of the cloth without him consciously wanting it to do so, his magic spilling out like the blood from Jester's wound.

Or maybe it's because they all have deeply repressed issues regarding the massacre of both their family and the main emotional support pillar they've ever had that's been unable to be even somewhat replaced and while fighting giant spiders they briefly hallucinated that said dead emotional support was eating their emotions so they could kill things better.

He takes a swig of his water (of which he did not want to drink but Nott put her foot down) in the tavern turned important building or something or other and tries to pretend he isn't about to cry as sobriety crashes down around his ears and reality sets in. The pleasant numb and dissociation from his emotions is gone, mostly. ‘Mostly’, because he isn't having an anxiety attack yet. He's still covered in guts. Mollymauk's hand is hot and uncomfortable and yet still wanted where it presses against his pale skin, the tiefling seemingly unable to tear himself away from the first person he latched onto once the head was safely tucked away for some poor bastard to deal with. He doesn't know where Yasha is and Nott has secluded herself in their room to clean herself and Frumpkin without the necessity of a long soak in water once or four times. Jester has been attempting to melt into Fjord since they sat down and he let her curl up in his lap, and Beau is off with Yasha being a failure at seduction probably.

“I really want a fucking bath.” He mumbles into Mollymauk's sticky hair, head rolled to the side, nose tucked underneath the tieflings sharp ear. He craves this casual touch, for once. Needs it right now. Maybe this is why he hasn't broken down yet. Hopefully it continues.

Beside him Jester snorts and lifts her head from where she was admiring Fjord's admittedly impressive arms. “That's a good idea, Cal-eeb. We should go do that right now.”

“Jes, you might actually drown yourself if you got into a bath in this state.” Fjord protests, but lightly, like he can't quite deny her what she wants. It's kind of pathetic.

“You will just hold me up then, silly!” She says. Fjord doesn't respond in, perhaps, latent despair.

“If it's a bath you want, lovely, a bath you, ah, WE shall have.” Mollymauk responds to him, either not noticing or outright ignoring the other two, nosing lightly at Caleb's temple like a cat seeking attention. It's annoyingly comforting. Now he has two cats. They should all be grateful that he likes felines so much, otherwise this entire arrangement wouldn't work.

He ruminates on that particular thought then downs the entire cup of water.

Gods he doesn't want to be sober for this.

~°~

Surprise, he's achingly sober when he finally slips into his (third) try at a bath. The first and second two tries ended with the water turning a murky red and brown that swiftly made his throat close up and Mollymauk edge closer to panicking again. Based on the last time the tiefling lost control of himself, Caleb would really rather avoid that.

The third try leaves the water somewhat dirtier but still pretty much clear, so he counts it as a win, skin rubbed raw from the second bath and hair a tangled but clean mess.

Fjord has Jester wrangled into the far end of the bath where she laughs and prods at her previous injury, which leaves him with a curious Mollymauk and absolutely no escape in sight.

“You're very tense right now, darling. That's rather the opposite of what this bath is for.”

Caleb sighs through his nose, but the rush of frustration is already leaking from his shoulders.

Sometimes, after battles, after the adrenaline leaves him dizzy and nauseous, he gets the shakes. His mind seizes up, like a prison he can't even get out of in his own body, and he just.

Withdraws.

It takes only minutes for him to beat it back, with thoughts of ash and smoke and mother and a burning, familiar robe. Nothing ever gets to him quicker than his own hand grown rage. But this time is different. This time he can't scream and cry and set fire to something until he's drained properly. This time he has no outlet, only the grounding touch of a man who fought an emissary of a God and won, who talked to her like he knew her and who wasn't struck down for it just as quickly. They're all ignoring it, waiting maybe, to ask, or in Beau and Fjord's case, interrogate.

But he knows what it's like to have secrets that are nearly impossible to hide and that burn when they come up, so he says nothing even as he wants to, desperately, an ache with his need to know attitude. Needs to know if the feeling of the Void had been Tirich or some excess build up and release of magic through his own. Needs to know why Mollymauk gives half a damn about him. Needs to know what they're to do from here, where they're to go. The future is unclear and it terrifies him. He's just been doing an admirable job of hiding it from everyone else. Or so he'd thought, anyway.

“I'm...sorry, Mollymauk. I don't mean to be short with you. I am just...thinking of what comes next, is all.” He says, quiet, knowing very well that the tiefling will hear even over Jester's giggling.

The blood hunter is silent for a moment, then moves from where he previously lounged comfortably back against the opposite side of the public bath, moving so close that the only barrier is Caleb's legs already brought up to his chest.

He can feel alarm and intrigue in equal measure in the back of his head, but the desire that seemed so stark before is muted and weak. When Mollymauk brings his now clean hand up to cradle his skull, carding his claws through wet, knotted locks with practiced ease and deceptive gentleness, he only relaxes and let's his head fall back, blue eyes staring up at the tiled ceiling, only dimly aware of the way Mollymauk shuffles them around until he feels the blood hunters chest pressed warm against his legs, tail lazily winding around his arm and curling in delight when he absentmindedly rubs a finger along the edge of the sharp tip. His anxiety is a quiet beast that prowls in the recesses of his mind. This isn't always going to be enough to stop it. He can't rely on Mollymauk like this all the time, but...he'd be lying if he said he didn't need this, didn't need to be taken care of just once. Fjord is not watching. This can be entirely between them, their own little secret. 

‘After everything,’ he thinks, ‘maybe Mollymauk can be trusted with this.’

“I think, really, that what you need is to let go, for just a while. Let someone else worry about plans and fall backs. Live in the now, if not for my own request or Nott's, then for yourself.” Mollymauk responds, finally, his purr a soothing, continuous noise that sinks into his bones just like the heat does. Finally, he lets his eyes close, and if a bit of the water on his face isn't just from the bath, no one but Mollymauk is around to know.

“And, anyway, beloved, call me Molly, alright? I have a feeling we'll be around one another for a long time to come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To raczej brzydki język. Wolę Infernala. - It is rather an ugly language. I prefer Infernal.
> 
> Opuść to miejsce i mogę cię oszczędzić! - Leave this place and I can save you!
> 
> To było tak długo, kochanie! Wszyscy byliśmy pewni, że jesteście w nieskończonym śnie! - It was so long, honey! We were all sure that you are in an infinite dream!
> 
> Nie porównuj mojej mocy do swojej własnej, ty, kurwa, wąż! - Do not compare my power to your own, you fucking snake!
> 
> Jesteś tak samo gwałtowny, jak pamiętam. A może powinienem powiedzieć "ochronny"? Ten mały człowiek pachnie tobą. - You're just as violent as I remember. Or maybe I should say "protective"? This little man smells of you.
> 
> Ludzie są słabi, kochanie! Umrze, gdy tylko odwrócisz wzrok! - People are weak, honey! He will die as soon as you look away!
> 
> Taka moc dla kogoś tak słabego. Niemożliwy. Z pewnością on czerpie z ciebie? - Such power for someone so weak. Impossible. Sure he draws from you?
> 
> Nie ma więzi! Co zrobiłeś? Nakarm go swoją krwią?! Jak go zmieniłeś?! - There is no bond! What have you done? Feed him with your blood?! How did you change him?!
> 
> Nie wiem, dlaczego moja krew w nim tak bardzo cię przeraża, ale dzięki za wolną wskazówkę! - I do not know why my blood scares you so much, but thanks for the free tip!
> 
> Some of the translations are off but Google Translate is a bitch so.
> 
> Caleb doesn't have feelings for Molly yet he's just Like That.
> 
> The drunk humor scene was painful to write but I needed a way to show Caleb is Really Not Okay and also to wind down from the fight. Hope you can stomach it lads.
> 
> Also yes that was some d/s undertones it'll be awhile but we'll get smth spicy. Eventually,,,,
> 
> Also announcement sort of? We might not have the money for internet next month which means, well. No updates unless I go to town which is an hour from here. It depends. Hopefully I'll have internet! Who knows. My life is kind of a continuous train wreck so Caleb's is too.


	8. Gokuraku Jodo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here have whatever this is while I cry over not remembering what Zadash looks like from not being able to watch CR at all in like two months

(-When the moonlight climbs the sky, and the red lanterns are lit, at the sign of festival music, a butterfly extends an invitation-)

Caleb can't quite recall the process of moving out of the bathhouse and back to the tavern, nor the move up the stairs and into bed either, it all seems to buzz out of focus like tears gathering across his eyes and blurring reality. He can remember the heat of the water and the slide of Mollymauk--Molly's skin along his legs, then his back and neck, solid body keeping him steady while they stumbled through dirty streets and back to the others, Fjord and Jester not far behind.

When he wakes, it's to Frumpkin curled tight against his neck, paws reaching far across his face and obscuring his vision, and the telltale warmth of Nott burrowed under the blanket and plastered across his legs. His head aches something awful and his mouth tastes like he'd taken Nott's initiative and eaten a chunk out of one of the corrupted spiderlings, then didn't even have the decency to brush his teeth. It's really not a pleasant awakening, though he's aware, vaguely, that it's his fault in the first place. Now he can remember why, exactly, he stopped turning to alcohol to make life easier after getting out of the Pit. That and it was Nott's vice, of which she had horrible taste. Why Mollymauk seemed so charmed with him in the bath is a mystery.

Mollymauk had said a lot of strange things in the bath, actually, Caleb had just been too blissed out by the heat and intimacy to question it. He frowns up at the cracked ceiling and nudges Nott's form with his foot, hand coming up to scratch at Frumpkin's ear when the cat grumbles and pulls his paws away at the movement.

On one hand, it's absolutely a terrible idea. Relaxing so much around someone so clearly dangerous is a one way trip to being violently murdered before he even pinpoints Heinrich's current location, never mind the mess any feelings that kind of trust would inevitably invoke. He knows himself. He has always been easily pressed into devotion. Just look at Nott. He isn't clairvoyant, he can't possibly see if it'd get them all killed, however. But that also means he can't rule out Molly stabbing them in the back and running with their meager amount of gold. If he himself could lay out a few plans to do so as a backup while under copious amounts of danger and stress, so can everyone else when under not even half of that.

But then, his brain whispers, that power doesn't have to be a danger to himself, if he plays it properly. If the devotion isn't merely one-sided, or at the very least flipped on its head...if Molly were to agree, to be WILLING to help him, with his blood hunter abilities…well. Then maybe Trent won't be so impossible to reach after all. Yasha would probably come along too, even.

And, he reasons, reaching a hand down to carefully slide Nott off his legs without waking her, it's enticing, the kind of thing Molly had offered to him last night. To be able to completely let go with the knowledge that he'd be taken care of by a trusted companion? Hell, it sounds suspiciously like a certain flavor of a sexual relationship, but that wasn't the offer in the bath and he has a feeling it won't be anytime soon. Unfortunately. But if it's only a platonic arrangement, that's something he can live with, really.

Assuming the tiefling hadn't decided he wasn't quite worth it during the night. Always a possibility. He isn't exactly a catch, be it romantically, sexually, or platonically.

Caleb huffs and slides out from under the warm caccoon of blankets, thoroughly having ruined the slight buzz from last night that lingered pleasantly as warm aftershocks of nails dragging along the curve of his spine and stopping just shy of his tailbone then repeating like stroking a beloved pet. (And oh, isn't that an interesting image to be saved for the next private bath.)

The cold wooden floor makes the journey to his knapsack uncomfortable even as his magic swells and tries to keep his feet warm. ‘It won't do much good in this case’, he thinks with a furrow in his brow, barely keeping himself from hopping around the room just to avoid the chill as he pulls on mismatching socks he absolutely did not own yesterday, he'd never waste money on foreign imports made for luxury. Also, they're bright purple. He wonders for a moment if Nott actually managed to steal from Mollymauk, or if he just gave them to her.

At least they're warm. Less so can be said for the fucking floor but we can't have it all.

His clothing is fresh and smells faintly of pastries, so apparently his first stop is hunting down Jester to aggressively pay her back lest she bring up his insignificant but still present debt weeks from now when realistically it should have been forgotten. He really does hate owing people for favors. Best to get it over with. And also maybe avoid Molly. Caleb wouldn't call himself a coward--that's a lie, he's never been good at denial, he's too critical for it--but thinking back to his earlier conclusion of ‘not good enough’ kind of makes him want to be one.

Frumpkin is sent to curl up against Nott's stomach before he carefully slips out the door and down the muddy stairs, strangely shiny boots scuffing against the dirty wood, vision swimming violently before settling. His head aches again, wonderfully, and he doesn't have enough money in his pockets to buy anything to eat.

‘Today will be grand.’ He thinks, and then runs directly into Molly around the corner.

“Oh, treasure, I was just coming to wake you! You were very tired after that bath, I wanted to let you sleep in and Nott said she'd keep you there if she had to.” Molly smiles as he says it, lips curling warmly, tray of food in hands and affection calling to Caleb like a siren.

“Ja, well, she is sleeping as soundly as the dead. Perhaps you were a little hasty in choosing a guard.” He answers, hesitant, up until his hands are full with the tray and lips are pressed to his forehead.

“Why do you think I was rushing, hm? I made you some breakfast, so go downstairs and eat while I tend to Beau. Jester had a...mild accident when waking, upon which she expelled the cinnamon rolls she made last night in a fit of mania.”

Caleb blinks.

That explains the smell.

“That's vile, thanks for that. I can not say she doesn't deserve it. Jester was the one to clean my clothes?”

Molly wrinkles his nose and pops a slice of strawberry from the plate into his mouth. “She got to it before I could, yes. Tried to clean ‘Nott's’ clothing too, if you want to call her stolen possessions actually HERS, but just got hissed at. Yasha cleans hers in streams like the barbarian she is, and I did my own after helping you into bed.”

Caleb hums and let's Molly press a spoonful of egg into his mouth, mostly just to see that pleased look pass over the tieflings face. Now he knows where they stand, at least, if he was eager to cook breakfast of all things. And do his laundry. And hand feed him. Among other things he probably just hasn't discovered yet. It's kind of embarrassing, that amount of effort put into helping him.

“You're doing this just to reassure me, aren't you?” Caleb asks, lips twitching, and pulls the tray away when wandering hands try to snatch another slice.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, darling, you sound delusional,” He sniffs, nudging Caleb with his hip as he passes up the stairs, then calls back over his shoulder, “Now go eat since you won't share it with the kind soul who made it for you. I'll take care of Nott.”

And then he's gone in a flurry of color, leaving a faintly confused Caleb behind.

Perhaps grand isn't the word he was looking for. Strange fits a little better.

~°~

The bar is sparsely packed again this morning, blood from the wounded seemingly wiped clean as if the entire incident hadn't happened at all, broken windows now covered with wood planks and furniture back where it belongs. Perhaps it's just cleaning up a mess to these people, but it feels a little like cleansing to him, washing away the events from the mine like Molly's hands chasing away the blood caked on his face. The start of a new chapter, even.

Or he's reading too far into it and the alcohol hasn't left his system entirely.

Molly's efforts won't go to waste, according to his appetite at least. If he isn't throwing up then he's (marginally) fine.

He snatches a table closest to the middle of the room and curls in on himself, legs pulled up and crossed, eyes glancing from patron to patron out of curiosity. There's a lot to learn from just watching people in the early morning. The elf hunched over a mug of something steaming has bags under their eyes, their long blond braid pristine and clothes straightened despite their lack of awareness. Not an early riser, but someone who puts genuine effort in their appearance no matter the time. And the orc hunkered in the far corner of the room to the left of the building is also working through a hangover, knuckles bruised, a split lip, and new bandages wrapped around his right bicep. Someone that probably helped with the fight in town then.

Caleb turns back to his plate and pops some sort of glazed pastry he's never had before into his mouth, swallowing past the warm but faintly metallic jelly. It's not unpleasant, but it does make his body feel just a little bit different. Undoubtedly Molly had attempted to sneak some sort of healing agent into it without him noticing. It's an appreciated and kind gesture, and he sighs as his headache disappears as quick as it had come. He can't say he doesn't enjoy the pampering. Nott would throttle him for turning Molly down, if she could reach him, anyway. The arrangement is best for everyone.

A blue hand snatches a piece of bacon off of his plate and disappears behind him.

“Caleb! It is good to see you are up! I was going to eat that donut before you but you read my mind! Molly never made me any desserts, I did not even know he could cook.” Jester pouts, sliding down into the seat beside him uninvited. Now he won't have to search every shop in town for her, thankfully, even if at the price of his meal. Every single one of them in the group is a damn thief.

“I do not think any of us save for Yasha know the true extent of all that Mollymauk can do, Jester,” He muses, then pushes the tray aside before she can steal anymore, “And stop that. Don't think I did not hear of your sickness. You will upset your stomach eating so quickly after that.”

“You're right but you shouldn't say it.”

He snorts, and looks her in the eye as he takes another bite of a muffin.

“I don't know why Molly likes you so much. You are a cruel man! And worst yet, an ungrateful one as well!” She mock cries, her hands cupping her face, blue eyes watery as if he had just pulled her hair or told her there were no more sweets in town. There weren't any on his plate, though, so maybe it counted.

“Ja, well in regards to that, I came down here to find you and to offer you a favor as thanks, assuming it is not, ah, TOO out there. Please keep that in mind.” It's a bit of a measly attempt at changing the subject before she goes into further theatrics and definitely some of his weaker work, but never let it be said that Jester is a focused woman. She latches onto the olive branch like a person drowning.

“Oh? It just so happens I have plans today that you might accompany me on.” She coos, fluttering her eyelashes coyly.

Caleb takes a sip of milk and says nothing.

“That trick works on none of you! Do you know how many goodies I have gotten from Mama's customers by doing that? Lots! Am I just not pretty enough for even you?” She sighs (he tries not to be offended by that last bit), and slumps backwards against the chair, childishly kicking her legs back and forth in the space that he's so kindly provided her with.

“Jester,” He starts as he hears footsteps from behind, “I like men.”

From beside him, Fjord coughs and chokes on his coffee, then settles down on Jester's other side.

Wryly, Caleb grins, unable to help himself, even over Jester's excitement at his admittance and his own lingering hesitation to become comrades with the nosy and downright militaristic half-orc. If he is to stay, though, it is best that they be amicable, if nothing else.

“I am also interested in women, actually, and you are a very pretty girl, Jester. I am just not interested in you in any way other than, ah, platonically.” Caleb finishes, finally, pretending not to notice when she slides his third to last piece of bacon to Fjord. He hadn't seen her take it but he won't mess up her vague courting ritual that can't make up its mind on the intensity of it. One minute she is insisting Fjord wash her breasts and the next, she is shy about him touching her hand when he takes the food from her. Perhaps it is just him, and his inability to understand a damn thing tieflings do.

“Well I think it is good that you are so open about it, Caleb! We support you no matter what!” She claps, once, then beams at him like she wants him to be proud of her. Fjord only gives him a thumbs up after Jester has repeatedly jabbed him with her elbow, but it's the thought that counts.

He is immediately charmed.

“Bitte, Fjord, take care of her. I think I may cry if she gets hurt.” He says in response, then only mildly complains when she squishes him into a hug. He’s gotten much better handling physical touch, clearly, but he isn't sure when it started. Molly seems to have opened the floodgates, because her well hidden strength wrapped around his shoulders makes him feel distinctly emotional for a few moments. He manages to hide it before she moves away, thank Tirich. How embarrassing.

The half-orc, slamming back his coffee like his life depends on it, gives a single, mean grunt in reply. Not a morning person either then. Everyone's just a bucket of laughs today.

“So Jester, you mentioned, mm, plans. What, exactly, am I getting into by agreeing to this?”

She says, “Flower picking! It is very easy! You just have to watch to make sure nothing nasty tries to sneak up on me, that's all,” Then stretches her arms above her head with an uncomfortable pop that makes his eye twitch, looking ready to dart to the door the moment he opens his mouth, as if knowing he'd agree already. He feels, suddenly, like he's been had. Maybe it's just the jelly though. The aftertaste still lingers on his tongue like the touch of magic after a new spell.

“Ja, you know it will not be easy now that you've said that. Fine. Let me give the last bit of this to Nott and we can go.”

He's only just unwound his legs and stood up before she's halfway across the room, all but floating to the door, pleased to have gotten her way as she always seems to do. Fjord looks at him with barely concealed glee, even over the last dredges of sleep attempting to pull him down.

“Now YOU know. God speed.”

Caleb doesn't give him the satisfaction of receiving a response. Bastard.

~°~

The air outside is pleasantly cool on the back of his neck where he's gathered his hair into a ponytail, enough so for him to go without his jacket and wear only a loose white shirt that looks suspiciously like something out of Molly's wardrobe and pants made out of rich, smooth material that would cost an arm and a leg anywhere else. As it is, having a thief for a best friend has it's benefits.

He wouldn't go so far as to call himself attractive, but the second glances he gets occasionally as the two make their way out of town and towards the far forest boosts what little ego he has.

“You clean up very nicely, Caleb, it makes me wish we were in a bigger city so you and I could show it off! Scruffy red haired men are all the rage apparently. “ Jester hums beside him, a skip in her step, woven basket swinging in her hand. It paints a pretty picture of innocence, if you ignore the wicked mace strapped to her back.

“I don't like all the attention, really, but I admit, it is nice to be really looked at for my appearance over how suspicious I seem for once. Let us not make it a habit though.” He snorts, barely restraining a grimace. The thought of being fawned over by lonely housewives and rebellious teens amongst the nobility who long for some sordid love affair out of a trashy smut novel isn't even slightly appealing to him like it might be for Molly or Beau.

Jester says, “You are so handsome, less rugged like Fjord and more scholarly like a librarian, put some glasses on and you'd have people eating out of your hand! It just seems a waste,” But he can't reply before she's pushing on ahead to the small trodden path he'd barely taken note of. She's more perceptive than he'd thought.

The meadow, that looks like some sort of overgrown garden she's found, is all but buried underneath the tall yellow grass that runs along his arms in the wind and makes his skin break out into goosebumps. He's hardly knowledgeable in flower language, but he knows what makes some poisons, and a part of him is giddy with excitement when he sees a few plants worth their weight in danger and coin. Jester disregards them entirely, but he carefully pockets them for later use. Mostly, she focuses on the wildflowers and clovers.

“I don't like to draw attention to myself. Nott is a goblin, and a thief at that. The less we, ah, stand out, the easier it is to make a quick getaway if she is caught or someone has a problem with her appearance.” Caleb answers, finally, after checking around them for whatever nasty creatures live in the Cyrengreen Forest only a ways off that Jester is so worried about. It's not the entire truth. He can disguise Nott well enough, and while it's true that not standing out will get them far, mostly, it's to avoid being seen by the authorities. Committing murder tends to get bounties placed on your head, never mind the penalty for killing a government official like he's been doing, and plans to KEEP doing. Making sure they've got no idea what he looks like is his best bet to sticking to the plan.

Jester huffs and let's her clipped daisies fall into the basket, dirt caking her skirt and hands after only a few seconds of digging. He hopes no one still goes to this garden, because at this rate, there'll be nothing left.

“I get that, but must you be so dirty for it to work?” It comes out more as a whine, like a child too stubborn to listen to what their parent is saying.

“Jester,” He begins, “What is more overlooked than a dirty homeless man?”

She throws a handful of dragon lilies at his face in response.

The conversation trails off for a moment, the only noise being the soft snip of her scissors as she cuts the stems off the flowers midway for some reason and the grass rustling in a way that he has a trouble differentiating from actual movement or the breeze. It's a tiny bit nerve wracking, but he isn't wasting his time setting up an alarm for a task that shouldn't take much longer.

“Alright, Cally, come here.” Jester pipes up, after what feels like hours of nothing but has been realistically only twenty minutes of waiting.

“Never call me that again or so help me Tirich, woman, I won't hesitate.” He says, and she doesn't even blink, just pats the ground in front of her again.

Caleb grudgingly moves to sit criss-cross in front of her, not even bothering to wipe the dirt now stuck to ‘his’ pants. They'd probably be ruined by unidentifiable stains eventually anyway. It's only when she has her fingers buried in his hair, weaving flowers through them in a way that stops him from yanking his head out of her hands does she spring her trap.

“So tell me about Tirich!”

She says it cheerfully, but her plan caught him like a fly in a spiders web. Actually, cut the metaphor, he's developed a bit of a grudge against arachnids. They were already vile, now his hatred is just personal.

“There isn't much to tell.” He says, which is simultaneously a lie and the truth at the same time. He's gotten quite good at those.

“You mentioned how he's like at the campfire as if you know him before the showdown with whatever-her-name-is, don't think I've forgotten! Fjord pointed it out to us last night while Molly put you to bed and we all talked about what happened.”

Well that's hardly surprising, and certainly smart. Molly is about as subtle as a dragon in a village, and his favoritism is clear. Which is flattering but apparently means they'll be excluded from possibly important meetings. They're like the elders from his youth with their incessant need to speak ill of the other adults as if the children who hear won't immediately spread it around.

“Whether or not I knew him is irrelevant, and personal, Jester. He is dead. That's all that matters.” He doesn't mean to snap, not at her, she hardly deserves it despite her prodding. She's an adult woman, but she's also incredibly naive at times, and doesn't seem to know when she's gone too far. But she's digging her thumb in an old wound and he can't help that he lashes out.

Her fingers pause in his hair, briefly, then begin braiding once more, the soothing repetitive motion calming enough for him to let himself breathe and let go of that immediate defensive anger. It's a tight ball of wound up tension in his chest, and he finds himself yearning for last night, for the scent of lavender instead of sweets, and a tail that he can focus on instead of the mess in his head. But perhaps that's not fair to Jester. She's trying her best.

It is just too bad he's developed a taste for a certain brand of comfort instead.

“I'm sorry...I can't imagine losing the Traveler. I did not even know gods could die.” She whispers, like this time, her worry should be kept secret. He knows nothing of the god she follows, but he can't imagine they'd be angry at her fear. Assuming he hasn't read her all wrong and she follows some sort of violent deity like Yasha.

“I don't know if the others can. He was...different. Less of a God and more of a personification of something. There's really no way to explain it. But my Tirich was just a piece of the whole.” He shrugs, and tries to keep his words coherent. It's not easy. How do you describe the beauty and terror of the void itself? How do you help someone understand the cold, absence of creation that Tirich represents? To gaze upon his true form would lead to madness and decay, assuming his presence hasn't devoured everything around him by the time you've even caught sight of him. Caleb has never seen him, and perhaps he never will, but he knows, in his heart, that Tirich is a monster. A creature of terrifying destructive power that the Gods themselves should tremble at.

But he always looked so very beautiful when Caleb saw that piece of him. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

“He wasn't the whole?”

“No. He was only a tiny piece, put on this planet for the mortals, a spokesperson, maybe. A sample. You can kill something that isn't imbued with immortality. But you can't kill something that was never truly alive to begin with. The tiny fragment has returned to the host, I'd imagine. Tirich as a whole is a paradox. He both is and isn't alive. It's best to think of him as...in an endless slumber that nothing bar the Gods themselves may ever wake him from.” He tries to elaborate, as best he can, then adds, dryly, “But were they ever to be stupid enough to do that, we'd all be dead, them maybe included. I'm not sure they even remember he exists, though.”

Jester has long since finished with his hair, but she still gently runs her fingers through it as he speaks, painted nails a soft, mindful pressure against his skull, and it centers him a little better than before. The wind has slowed to a crawl, and the sun has moved further down. It's almost one, now, but he can't bring himself to complain. It feels good to tell someone else, even if it won't end in conversion. He knows how important deities are to people. He won't take hers away.

“I know you have Nott and now Molly, but if you want to talk about him to someone who would understand…” She trails off, her tone now warm, and almost shy. For all her excitement to tell everyone of the Traveler, it occurs to him that never before has she met someone who is so close to their chosen deity as she is. This offer is not only for himself, anymore.

Relaxing entirely, he reaches back to tangle his fingers with hers for a single, gentle squeeze to her hand, his eyes meeting hers over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Jester. Perhaps, one day, the Traveler shall join us, and we might both find the solace we need.”

~°~

They don't make it back to town until five, both significantly in better spirits than before, with Jester's hair adorned by a crown of lilies she'd spent nearly twenty minutes attempting to reach underneath a fallen tree at the very edge of the forest he'd refused to wander into, and his own flowers replaced once when they'd unfortunately fallen out and he hadn't noticed. Her basket is filled to the brim with an assortment of flowers and mushrooms he'd had to physically stop her from eating.

They make a strange pair, probably, both covered in dirt, linked arm by arm and wearing flowers like theater depictions of elves. It's probably offensive to dryads everywhere, but it's hardly like they'll run into any in the middle of town.

“I have not had this much fun in so long, I do not want it to end! It's a good way to relax after yesterday and all that icky blood. I had spider guts in places no woman should ever have it.” Jester sighs, snorting in a way he'd never thought her capable of a few hours ago when he gags at her statement.

“There is a thing called ‘the line’ and you just crossed it.” He deadpans, but she only bumps her horn against his chin and tugs him along towards the road that leads to the tavern. Despite himself, and the fun he's admittedly had, he misses Nott and Frumpkin. Mollymauk too, but the man has a big enough ego as it is.

Rarely is he away from her side for an entire day. Usually, such a thing only occurs during a job that requires a long wait. Once (and only once), they'd taken an assassination job that paid in nearly enough coins for them to buy a modest wagon, but that lasted for two months. In the end, he'd been the one to make the killing blow, and it'd gone off so well that they'd not even been forced to leave their station until a week later when the household staff had been let go. It'd been an impressive job but they'd both hated the arrangement. Caleb was a gardener, which meant long hours without water or food in the backyard and Nott had been a glorified slave. They’d rarely had any time together, never mind the nightmare it was to summon Frumpkin. He had relished that particular kill, needless to say. He'd agreed not to take a job like that again, which was mildly unfortunate, because the money was fantastic.

“Boundaries serve only as a prison for intimacy and the discovery of self.” Jester states, her tone offering no argument. Caleb, baffled, can't come up with one.

Not that he needs to, because Jester lights up like electricity magic the moment they step around a rambunctious crowd and the tavern comes into view.

A sloppily put together sign reads “Celebration of gnoll-slayin” above the door. It says nothing about their hand in it and he doesn't expect it to. It's undoubtedly just a shoddy reason for everyone to get drunk off their asses and forget about their grief for a brief night. Caleb can't find fault with it. Doesn't mean he'll be drinking again anytime soon though. He would genuinely rather eat his own arm.

“Oh my gosh! It's a sign, Caleb!”

“Clearly.”

She smacks his arm hard enough for him to yelp and pushes him forward, though is clearly careful not to jostle the flower basket. It is so nice to see a basket take priority over his own care.

“Don't be sarcastic, I mean it's a sign from the gods! I said I didn't want this day to end and we run right into a party!”

“Oh joy.”

Jester pointedly ignores his exasperation and skips forward, probably also ignoring the clumps of grass that fall off her shoes at the sudden movement that leaves a trail for him to follow through a dense and still growing crowd. It, from the outside, looks like an actual nightmare. And unlike the powerhouses that make up his group, he can't just shove his way through them all as if he owns the place.

‘Maybe’, He thinks with a hesitant step backwards, ‘I'll just go sleep in the town jail.’

A large hand settles gently against his shoulder and he tries very hard not to scream.

“Lots of people tonight. Pretty sure it's Beau's doing. Mol's went off in a fit over it.” Yasha's deep voice weaves through the mess of vague fight or flight plans, and he settles underneath the calm she always exudes. He's reasonably sure she's got angelic blood in her, because nothing else quite makes sense to him. He'd be unnerved by the inherent and inexplicable safety he feels when around her but that's a little hard to do when it's being magically suppressed.

He let's out a breath, and turns to face her, taking in the hair that's been plaited into braids, the clean furs over her shoulders and the greatsword strapped to her back like a second arm. People flow around her seamlessly like water with covert looks of awe and fear, and occasionally, recognition. He's outright grateful that absolutely no one looks at him when dwarfed by her form.

“Is Molly well then?” Caleb asks, over the music that begins to swell sweetly over the shouts of the villagers, a cacophony of violin and whatever instruments the townspeople could dig up. It's nice to hear them celebrating after the loss and horror, but he knows he has to get into the thick of things if he wants to get to his room, and that's not the best idea for his...entire personality.

Yasha shakes her head, beads clacking together, and says, “He's fretting over everything today. I think he's worried about you.”

Well he can imagine why. Caleb has hardly given off the most mentally stable impression.

“Ah, well...I will speak to him? Later?” It comes out as a question more than a certainty. He kind of flounders like a fish out of water when it comes to talking to someone who can't carry the conversation and is just as inept as him in social situations.

She opens her mouth to answer but is stopped short by Jester barreling through the crowd, no longer carting a basket around but now dragging a mildly amused Mollymauk behind her. His signature coat hangs folded over one arm as if he were a well bred gentleman, and his thigh highs and pants have been replaced by simple heels and shorts. It's a good look for the tiefling, and were he still in the state of mind he came back in, maybe he'd say so. Now, though, he stays quiet.

“There's dancing in the tavern and Molly was looking for you, Cally, so I brought him here! But I have to go! Fjord is willing to dance and I'll be a dead woman before I let someone else get to him before I do.” Jester says it with a smile, the kind of smile Caleb would expect from a crazy ex girlfriend, or a mass murderer, or Mollymauk. She is kind of terrifying. He doesn't miss her when she darts back into the crowd.

“I'm not entirely sure Fjord can handle her. Let's all send a prayer up for him, hm?” Molly laughs, slipping against Caleb's right side and locking arms with both him and Yasha.

“At this point I am not entirely sure any god would listen to me.” Caleb says, with only a touch of humor. Wouldn't do to be rude just yet.

Molly sighs quietly and leans his head against Caleb's, mindful of the glimmering golden jewelry and flowers, his tail wrapped in yet more silver chains a cold pressure against his leg.

“Oh, I don't know. I think there's at least one looking out for you, dearest.”

Caleb doesn't answer. Must Mollymauk be so very vague? It's as if he went to an academy for it. Academic Researcher majoring in Mysterious Behavior and Vaguely Ominous Language Arts.

With Yasha, who is careful not to push but needn't bother as everyone jumps out of her way on one side and Molly, who shoves past everyone with no regards for their safety as if used to getting the same treatment as Yasha on the other, they make it to the door and past the threshold into the belly of the beast far easier than it would have been if it'd just been him alone. He's thankful, of course, and says so as quickly as possible before Yasha immediately beelines for the stairs and he misses his opportunity, but he'd really rather be anywhere else currently.

“You are easily the tensest person I know, and I met Fjord before I met you. If paranoia were a race, you'd be winning.” Molly gently adjust the braid wrapping around Caleb's head as he speaks, not even looking as he guides them towards the staircase and further away from prying eyes.

He snaps, “I am so very sorry I have anxiety and it bothers you. Please, do expound upon my flaws some more, hm?” Then slumps at the way the tiefling freezes mid step in the hallway to their rooms.

It's not fair to take out his pent up tension on the blood hunter as aggression, but the battering of music, laughing, voices and the earlier conversation about Tirich has left him in the middle of an oceanic storm without an anchor.

He opens his mouth to apologize and get as far away from the conversation as possible, but Mollymauk hums something softly to himself in Zemnian that Caleb can't quite catch and tangles their hands together just like in the mine, his rough palms almost a surprise against his skin.

“No, I'm doing this wrong, I'm sorry. It feels too easy to say whatever comes to mind with you, do whatever I want, and expect you to be okay with it as if I am as familiar to you as Nott is.” Molly chuckles, something sad and a little like grief colouring his tone.

“I may come off as charming and delightful with you, but I'm far from it. I'm a terribly selfish person, Mr.Caleb. It's easy for me to say and believe I want to take care of you, but putting action behind my words? That's a little harder for me.”

Caleb almost scoffs, but he holds it back. Probably not the time for that.

“You try to keep me grounded with touches and words all the time. You heal me if I have even the slightest ache. You made food for me when I undoubtedly would have simply forgotten or chosen to go without. You helped me relax in the bath. And we've not even known one another for two weeks yet. You have flaws, just as I expect you to. You aren't perfect, Molly, or some sort of God.” There's a thousand other things he wants to say, but it doesn't feel like the right time to let them out, like there's a lock on his words and he just hasn't come across the right key. They stick in his throat, and eventually, he gives up.

Molly gives him a thin smile and says, so quiet he almost misses it, “That's the problem, my darling.”

Caleb doesn't know how to answer that. The response pings uselessly against something in his mind, something that happened, but no matter how hard he tugs at the memory, whatever grips it tight refuses to let it loose. He files it away for later instead.

“No matter. I'll do better, in the future. You need only remind me if I go too far, okay?” The tiefling asks, but it feels less like a question and more like a plea, like something Molly has asked before. Perhaps he has.

“Alright. Ah, well, this is my room. I don't hear Nott, so would you...like to come in?”

The air between them feels tense for a drawn out moment longer, enough to make him nearly backpedal, but then Molly snorts and opens the door himself, waltzing in as if it were some sort of luxurious brothel room instead of a dingy tavern bedroom with a hole in the floor that definitely hadn't been there when he'd left. He kicks a shirt on the floor over it and pretends he didn't see it. That can also wait for later.

“You hardly need to invite me in anymore, lovely, I think I've been in here more times than my own room.”

At this point, he doesn't know why he's surprised.

At least Mollymauk doesn't sound like he's about to burst into tears anymore. It's probably a fake show of happiness to lighten the mood, but Tirich knows Caleb couldn't manage it.

“Oh yes, come in, no need to wait for me.” He mumbles, letting the door close with a soft click behind him and shedding his boots. The maybe-stolen socks stare back at him accusingly, and he looks at a sleeping Frumpkin curled up on his bag instead, refraining from disturbing the familiar to bury his face in his fur, but only barely.

“Did you go flower picking with Jester? I can't imagine anyone else other than her and Yasha would braid them into your hair. It's cute.” Molly offers, sliding in close and pulling him into some sort of ballroom dance to the tempo of the music his muscles only barely remember, heels falling off unceremoniously as he moves with a sharp, obnoxious clack.

“Mm, danke, Molly. I'm marginally sure she took me out there just to ask me invasive questions but it wasn't so bad, I suppose. I've had my fill of dressing up however. I do not know how you stand being stared at so much.”

The tiefling pauses as if unsure of whether or not to offer to scold Jester, but eventually settles and let's Caleb change their hand positions so that Molly leads, red eyes slipping closed. Despite this, Caleb knows he's still entirely aware of everything he does. He has a childish urge to touch Molly's forehead lightly with his finger and pretend he hadn't done anything to see if the other reacts like cats do.

Today is a test against his resolve in many more ways than just one, it seems. How utterly delightful.

Caleb hasn't danced in what feels like forever, and he feels dangerously emotional about it. He can remember standing on Mama's feet in the kitchen while she hummed a Zemnian song about a woman waiting for her beloved to come back from the war on one of those good days of her when he was still a child, Tirich a loving presence in the room but, for once, not pushing into the scene, just observing. Letting her have this one moment. Molly doesn't dance like her at all, it's all grand spins that leave Caleb breathless and dips that make his cheeks flush like a teenager with a crush. It's exhilarating, even as the tempo changes to something slower and almost sleepy.

“I hear the others coming up the stairs, darling, I'm sure it's about past time we all talked about our next move. Want me to fetch them?” Molly asks, after a few minutes of them listening to the music and sharing in the peace. That same childish part of him violently rejects the offer, wants to stay, like this, close and intimate in a way that he selfishly covets, but he knows better than to listen. Getting it over with and hiding under the blanket with Frumpkin and Nott after it's done is a relatively good motivator.

“Ja, bitte.”

The loss of those hands in his leaves him feeling somewhat cold, which is so ridiculously sentimental that he immediately chocks it up to losing the natural tiefling body heat and nothing else. It's at least worth it to see Nott's face when the door to their room is thrown open dramatically to reveal a shoeless Molly and a flustered Caleb. Were he anyone else, she'd probably attack him.

When Molly had said ‘the others’, he'd assumed maybe two of them. In reality, it's quite literally everyone.

Yasha stoically holds up Beau's entire body, who looks to be both in a state of bliss at the arm around her waist and a state of deep pain at the blood steadily trickling down her nose. He can take a guess as to how that happened but he doesn't care to. Fjord avoids Jester's gaze as much as possible and the tiefling in question smugly pushes past Molly to flop onto the floor and pet Frumpkin. She looks very much like she has gotten what she's wanted. Caleb would put on a ‘I'm disappointed in you’ look for Fjord if he hadn't also indulged her the entire day.

Nott all but shoves Fjord out of the way to crawl up his legs and into his arms, giving him a tight, long hug that he gladly returns. She feels far heavier than usual, and he has a feeling the residents of Alfield are missing a few trinkets, but he takes her weight gladly and let's her do as she pleases, warmed by her easy affection. Now all he needs is for Molly to get back to playing with his hair and he'll be happy.

“Do come in, lovely guests, we have things to discuss. Beau, if you get blood on those sheets I will skip rope with your intestines, and that's a promise.” Molly smiles, and wisely, Yasha diverts from dropping the monk onto the bed to instead settle on the floor against her. Beau looks almost grateful for the threat.

Fjord settles against the wall next to the door like he's ready to bolt, which is fair, and Molly happily lounges on the bed like he's been there all his life, moving over only to let Caleb sit cross-legged beside him with Nott hopping down to join Jester. Her yellow eyes dart to the shirt covering the hole, then avoid his accusing gaze. 

He isn't paying for the damage this time.

“Ish anyone gonna fix muh noshe?” Beau grumbles, wincing almost immediately once the words leave her throat as Yasha touches it with a single glowing fingertip and it pops back into place with a uncomfortable crack.

“How'd it happen?” He asks, because he genuinely can't help himself.

“Some fuck'n prick slapped my ass. I told him to die in a hole and he decked me cause god forbid he be told off by a woman.” Beau sniffs (then winces at the noseful of blood), and Yasha sighs quietly from her position against the wall.

“I hit him over the head with a chair.”

Caleb is so startled he laughs, which makes his throat feel kinda weird and probably scares Nott half to death, and Fjord, in response, shakes his head, his eyes on the ceiling like an exasperated mother. It's kind of a fitting title so far.

“We had to come back up here before we pissed off the entire population of Alfield not even a day after savin’ ‘em. Don't call ‘em out on that either, Beau, I can see you openin’ your mouth from here.”

Beau closes her mouth and shrugs, not even bothering to argue.

Caleb runs his fingers along Molly's open palm and frowns at the anxious way Nott jitters from her seat on the floor, her eyes locking with his before darting to the door and back. That spells trouble. When she looks back, he shallowly inclines his head in a nod hidden as a yawn.

“There were some crownsguard soldiers too, at the bar! I was st-ahaha, coincidentally finding shinies behind it and overhead them. They said they found some burned bodies of their comrades washed up in some brambles because of the smell a few hours ago on their way here from the border. Suppose there's bandits running around?”

Shit. He should have known that'd catch up eventually. Really, they've been lucky it hadn't happened sooner. He tries not to let his apprehension show, because if Fjord is even somewhat suspicious…

Well. He doesn't want to ruin a perfectly good day.

“Ain't ever heard of bandits tryin’ to get rid of evidence but hell, not like I've met many of them in my lifetime anyway. Could be any number of things. Definitely ain't good news for us if we want to head on that way.”

Nott nods along, then frowns, as if in thought. It's strange of her to hesitate now. But then, it could be because she doesn't know if it's best to say it around everyone. He leaves that up to her.

Finally, she straightens, and says, “They mentioned some hoity toity general throwing a ball in Zadash too, inviting all the higher ups. Wonder what those kinda things are like.”

Jester gasps and snatches onto the subject so hard it startles Frumpkin, but he tunes out after that.

This is their chance. It could lure any number of their targets to Zadash, and the city isn't very far away. Eodwulf is the one he's hoping for the most, but he'll settle for any of them, aside from maybe Trent. He doesn't have the power to go against that monster, he knows, but the urge to try it anyway, no matter how futile pulses in his veins.

Now he just needs a plan to get them all there, and fast. They've taken jobs there occasionally, working in the underground for the Gentleman and for the nobles and their petty political power grabbing, but his contacts there aren't particularly substantial.

Wait. Gentleman.

“Zadash...that gives me an idea.” He interrupts, as softly as possible over the adrenaline rushing through his body, and meets Fjord's eyes head on, barely aware of everyone's eyes on him.

“Hell, I'm willing to hear anything. Shoot.”

Caleb takes a breath and leans back against the pillow, brow furrowing until Molly hooks a leg over his own and presses a little bit closer.

“You might not like it,” He admits, “but it's the best I've got in such short notice, and unless we plan on diverting through the mountains towards the Menagerie Coast, we'll have to head that way. No way we'll all agree to go towards Xhorhas just yet.”

Fjord runs a hand over his hair, tousling it out of place, but waves a hand for him to keep talking, clearly already thinking of worst case scenarios.

“Nott and I sometimes ran through there in our travels. It's a nice enough city, whether you stay within the law or prefer some...shadier means for work. There's a...we'll say crimelord stationed there, goes by the monicker the Gentleman. Suspicious bastard but he pays fair and didn't bat an eye when he saw Nott, so he's fine with me. He's always got some type of work for us. With such a large group of us, though? He might just give us a big job.” He finishes to let it sink in, then hides a smile.

“And his big jobs? They always pay very, very well.”

He knows he's got them with that, hook, line, and sinker.

Fjord chuckles, some of that frosty exterior chipping away, and Caleb almost feels bad for playing them all like a deck of cards. Almost.

“Well damn, guess it's our luck we ran into y'all. If you can get us in contact with him once we get there, I'll buy us all some drinks for once. Let's get some rest y'all. We leave tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue me walking into ao3 two weeks late holding a milkshake and two new widomauk fics
> 
> The other one I'm working on is about wendigos because I'm incapable of writing anything normal, ever, in my life. Monster!Mollymauk might as well be my personal tag.
> 
> This chapter is such a mess but it has rlly important things in it so you will eat what I feed you.
> 
> Caleb: let's not make it a habit though  
> Me, looking at the Zadash arc: :))))))
> 
> Also y'all Jester was supposed to be the one to dance with Caleb and he overhears the soldiers but Molly has a mind of his own and kicked me in the knee when I tried to write something else I don't know why I bother planning things anymore
> 
> Next chapter: Crimedad gets Christmas early, Yasha hugs Molly then dips, Caleb's life continues to go up in flames while he does nothing to stop it, and Molly fails to act normal some more


	9. Bottom of the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so close to passing out dear lord, I'll look this over and be unpleasantly embarrassed by mistakes tomorrow, gods I pushed myself to finish this lmao

(-The Lord's gonna come for your first born son, his hair's on fire and his heart is burning-)

Zadash is a city of opportunity, if you have the right amount of ambition and willingness to get your hands dirty.

As it is, that's all Caleb has been doing lately.

From saving a town from an invasion of gnolls, helping take down a drider possessed by a God as if he were some crack shot hero, then manipulating his friends into getting him to his next target, it's clear his moral alignment is in a bit of a twist right now.

He glances up at the window looking out into the streets of Zadash and feels himself relax inch by excruciating inch.

This isn't a city where that matters, at least.

The Gentleman cares little for who is doing his jobs so long as they're getting done, after all, and Caleb has always been very good at what he does.

Making contact with the crimelord is always easier said than done, but the few contacts Nott has made comes through in the end, and usually will if the price is good enough. Thankfully, after the drider and gnoll ear trophies were brought in and a wagon plus horses were purchased, he was left with enough money to buy ones information and still have enough to not worry for at least a few weeks. Death pays well.

Caleb shifts over onto his side and let's Nott settle closer to his stomach, a transformed Frumpkin nestled comfortably as a robin on the taken over pillow, feathers puffed out for more heat.

The journey to the city had been all kinds of uncomfortable, now having to contend with multiple people all around him while sleeping. The only comfort he can take in it is that Molly refuses to let anyone else take up the open spot next to him, so he at least is boxed in by the two people he trusts the most in the group. It serves to make his paranoia less potent. And really, not even Beau is foolish enough to try anything against him when he's shielded by the two most volatile members of the group.

Molly rooms with Yasha once they check in to the Leaky Tap, however, and Caleb tries not to be disappointed at the sudden change. Everyone needs their space. It's what Nott tells him when he openly let's himself pout in their room, though the fact that she dislikes having him out of her sight for more than a few hours at a time goes against her words. He doesn't bother pointing it out. She'll just say goblins are different and then pretend she isn't running away from the conversation while walking quickly out of the room. She does it whenever he says things she doesn't want to answer, and at this point, he can tell what will cause it. Romance is one of them. Their mutual dependence on each other and the unhealthy side effects of it is another.

“It's like five in the morning, stop thinking so loud, Caleb.”

Nott's soft, snuffling voice makes him snort and shift so his body curls around her own, soothed by the way she immediately presses closer, like a little sister seeking comfort after a nightmare. He is surprised she's awake, because she has a tendency to sleep until twelve if he let's it happen and she knows they're safe.

“It is nine, actually, liebling, but I am sorry my brooding disturbed your beauty rest.” He teases, much to her displeasure, if her groan is anything to go by.

“Still too early! Sleep!”

Caleb opens his mouth to wind her up further, but is interrupted by a soft knock on the door. At first he thinks it's Molly, but when the door isn't immediately shoved open, he settles back down. Molly is about the only one he cares to look presentable for right now, and even that is only by a small margin.

“Ah, Caleb, Nott? If you are awake, you should know we are gathering in Fjord's room for a..chat? I think? Uhm. See you there.” It's Yasha, her footsteps strangely light and her voice awkward, before she retreats from the room.

Flopping across his stomach, Nott glares balefully at the door and doesn't move to get up.

“I can't be mad at Yasha, why couldn't they have sent Beau to get us up?”

He says, “Because they probably know you'd bite her,” and she doesn't look even slightly apologetic. They both know it's true.

“Suppose they're gonna grill us about the Gentleman?”

“Absolutely.” He hums, letting the anxiety fizzle out against the repetitive motion of running his fingers through Nott's silken hair, just washed last night. It smells faintly of coconut, and the scent is so pleasing that he doesn't even complain when her sharp elbows dig into his ribcage.

“We're friends with them now, but…we shouldn't tell them about our own goals. They didn't like us lying to that nice family, so, I mean. Murder is worse to you humans, right?”

Caleb contemplates the merit of never letting any of them in on it. For as much as he likes Molly and outright feels as if he can be trusted, even Nott didn't get the whole story until the second year of roaming with him. He has only just met the others, however.

“No. We won't tell them anything. And Nott? Kleiner Vogel?”

She pauses in her idle movements at the serious tone he takes and glances up into his eyes. Her small face is open, and trusting, and something sharp aches in his chest, that tiny part of him that died with the last of his kin. It whispers, ‘family’, and he presses his fingers to his lips, then to her cheek.

“If they find out, and it becomes clear that you will not be safe with them...do not hesitate to cut them down.”

“Even Molly?”

He laughs quietly under his breath and pulls her as close as he dares without squashing her, as if she were in danger of being snatched right from his arms.

“Ja, well, I like him, Nott, but I love you. You will always take priority. So yes. Even Molly.”

 

~°~

Nott complains the entire way to Fjord's room up until he's shoved her into a chair and Molly, with his feet kicked up onto a table he doesn't even want to think of them having stolen, pushes a plate of eggs and sliced fruit next to her head. That shuts her up, at least. He loves her but she is not good for his blood pressure.

Caleb settles down beside the purple tiefling with a sigh and let's his battered spellbook drop to the table with a thump, letting Nott push a slice of peach into his mouth while he gets back to writing, and tries not to let the frustration of having to do so get to him.

His magic changed after Tirich's death, and it continues to do so as he grows. That sudden spike in power, the use of spells he's never put into his spellbook during the battle with the Spider Queen? That sounds like the beginning of something changing again. His first assumption had been that Tirich had...magically awoken, or had never died in the first place. But then he'd prayed, when finally left alone long enough to do so, and had not felt even a stir of shadow against his skin at his pleas, only Molly finding him soon after to drag him away from his empty begging. He hadn't had the heart to resist.

Before Tirich's death, he had no need of a spellbook. The magic came from beyond, drawn from the bond between himself and his God. Then that bond had changed and so too did the way magic came to him. Now it's like a blockade against his power, just enough to forego ingredients but not enough to cast whatever he pleases whenever he chooses to do so.

He yawns behind a hand and curls his fingers over Molly's wandering tail, soothing the skin carefully and letting the motion rock him into a warm haze that takes away focus from anything but the grounding touch and the rune incantation he hasn't finished. It's blissful, a call back to the bath, and he finds himself wondering if they'll get to do such a thing again anytime soon. It's not exactly expensive, but they've never done it all in one big group, and he doesn't fancy how crowded it might become depending on the bathhouse they choose. Either way, he's looking forward to the heat and press of skin.

He brings himself out of his reverie only when the spellbook makes a soft chime as the old magic woven through page after page accepts what he's written down, the pads of his fingers still roving, further down than before, the appendage wrapped tight around his arm up to his elbow. Before him, the rune glows a pale blue, etchings of frost cracking along the paper as if the ice rune itself was seeping through. Magic is terribly melodramatic even without being sapient.

“You seem more proficient in fire.” Molly states, legs now curved to his left so he's all but using Caleb as a support than just looking over his body to read his writing, chin and horn a firm pressure against his shoulder and face. It's not an uncomfortable press, not without the missing jewelry, just an unfamiliar one.

“I am, but fire can not fix every problem. Dragons, for example. Fire based monsters,” He says, then adds, with a twist to his lips, “Anyone with a simple water cantrip.”

Molly's blank look melts into understanding, and he nods easily. Caleb can't actually tell if he understands or not.

“Oh, good to see y'all are awake now. We got a few things to discuss, then we can get down to business.” Fjord tells them once he's edged into the room with a basket of clothes. Evidently it was not Jester doing the laundry this time.

Beau drags herself in just as pitifully as Nott had and slumps onto her shared bed with Jester, looking well rested but moody from who knows what.

“They're out of bacon.” She explains, which doesn't actually tell him anything, but he nods all the same, and she leaves it, apparently satisfied with his non-answer.

“It's not so bad. They had muffins in the kitchen!” Jester smiles as she shuffles in behind the half-orc, who doesn't look up from his folding.

“Nothing is bad to you if there's something sweet to eat nearby.”

“Nothing could ever be as sweet as your personality.” Molly drawls, head tilted towards Beau.

“Damn right. I'm a fuckin delight.”

“I really wouldn't go that far.”

Fjord sighs and throws a lacy blue bra at Beau's face, the article of clothing catching on her bun and dangling over her eyes for only a moment. She looks so indignantly offended that Caleb has to wonder if she'll get up to strangle the man, but then, he isn't sure she could even reach him.

“Oh, that's mine, thank you.” Jester says, yanking it off Beau's frozen face and tossing it behind her onto the bed.

Molly is mercifully silent, but that could be because the force of his laughter made him have a hernia. He hasn't done anything but shake his shoulders with his face buried in his hands since the bra was thrown.

“I didn't sign up to raise kids.” It's said in a grumble, like Caleb or anyone else isn't meant to hear it, but Fjord isn't the quietest person in the world and Molly is Molly. They both undoubtedly hear.

“Alright, shut up y'all, we have actual things to discuss.”

It's about time. He isn't looking forward to being dressed down about a possible contact and all that entails but if it gets him to that damn party then he'll do what he has to. There will not be an opportunity like this so soon afterwards, and that means it could be months of further tracking and planning if he fails to arrive and find his target. Of course, that's on the assumption that any of them will even be there.

“Yeah, well I got a question for Molly. Why was it so easy to take down that spider bitch?”

The tiefling winds his tail around his waist lazily and lounges back against his pilfered chair, clearly not pleased with the thought of the creature, but willing to answer nonetheless. “You've probably figured out by now that she wasn't Lolth herself. Gods have people called champions most of the time, and I imagine the drider was one of hers. Sometimes there's multiple champions, but seeing as that role is a direct line between God and Mortal and requires giving away power, it's not done often.”

Molly's eyes pause on Jester, and he smiles blandly at her, his head tilting ever so slightly to the right, movement strangely off-putting.

“Jester is a champion of the Traveler. She's marked by him, I can feel it when my blood magic is in use. It's like an invisible brand that practically flashes in your face when you have the ability to see it. Whoever that drider was, she was only being used by Lolth to...well. I don't know. Something was of interest in that town. That she left us alone so easily is strange. I fear that shan't be the last we see of her.” He elaborates, so casual, as if it were a discussion about the weather, fingers tracing the rim of his mug.

Beau mouths ‘shan't’ to herself, confusion creasing her brow, and Caleb coughs to cover his snort. It doesn't work.

“So champions are, what, priests? Clerics?”

“No. Clerics take power from their God but aren't given the same bond, and priests are...less of a hands on type of deal. I suppose you could see it as...priests are the right hand, the show of influence, and champions are the left hand, the show of strength.”

Fjord shrugs, then, and leans his elbows on the table. ‘Evidently’, Caleb thinks dryly, ‘That sailor charm doesn't extend to manners.’

“Right then. Guess we have a God to worry about. Fantastic. What are the chances we'll have to deal with more of them?” He sounds resigned, and Caleb desperately tries not to laugh about it. He doesn't want to be rude.

“Likely. Sorry, dear, but there are two champions in this group, and you've got something going on as well. They’re a bit like honey to bears.”

Caleb feel his breath stutter.

“Oh, right, yeah. I'm...close to the Stormlord. If he wants me to do something, I'll do it, and all.” Yasha shrugs, which makes nearly everyone in the room jump, because no one had seen her come in aside from Molly. It's annoying, that she's so quiet when she's got the stature of a medium sized giant.

Jester looks absolutely delighted to not be alone, but she also darts a look of warmth towards Caleb. She's definitely guessed what he is to Tirich then. It feels nice, in a way, for her to know, but it's also strange that Molly didn't say three. He glances at the blood hunter, but Molly doesn't meet his eye.

No longer curled up but instead seemingly wide awake, Nott halts just before shoving an entire biscuit into her mouth, a frown on her face as she asks Fjord, “Wait, what'd you got going on? Did we miss something?”

“It really ain't all that important.” Fjord smiles, uneasily, but Jester shoves right past his uncertainty like a sheepdog excited to show off her proud work to her master.

“He passed out while we were fighting a giant toad and choked on salt water! Then his sword got weird.”

The half-orc puts his head in his hands. Caleb can sympathize.

“Can you repeat that?”

From his side, Molly nudges the wizard with his boot under the table until he turns to give him his attention and accepts a biscuit, then sends Jester a look of complete resignation that looks rather out of place on such a dramatic persons face. ‘You really don't have room to judge,’ he thinks, but doesn't say it aloud.

“What she means is that Fjord was rudely awakened into his contract with a sea deity while in the middle of battle.” The purple tiefling translates, though his attention is clearly more on pilfering food from Beau's plate while she watches Yasha to feed Nott than the conversation itself. The fondness the scene threatens to push through his defenses nearly makes him lose his appetite. Dreadful things, emotions. You think you're safe and then you take one look at someone you care for doing something sweet and suddenly you're falling down concrete stairs with no end in sight.

“Aren't warlock deities, you know, evil?” Beau muses in a way that tells him it's not the first time she's posed the question and clearly won't be the last.

Caleb swallows past a sip of still too damn hot tea and finally speaks up, his voice rising above Fjord's pathetic attempts at defending himself.

“Not necessarily. Mostly it depends on the person and their goals. Someone who wants power but isn't willing to kill innocents for it would attract or seek out a neutral deity. Someone with pure intentions is far less likely to attract any, though, and is better off turning to the Gods.” He says, his eyes meeting Fjord's for just a split second too long, and he knows his subtle jab hasn't went unnoticed. Caleb isn't the only one that's suspicious, after all. It's best they all remember that.

“No warlock worth his salt will seek out a deity who is purely good and willing to offer such power, because they don't really exist, it's true.” Molly sighs, agreeable but tired, like someone who's taught the exact same subject year after year and finds it to be dull work after so long.

Fjord sulks, and the conversation changes, finally leaving the poor bastard alone.

“So, the Gentleman… “ Yasha begins, “Will you be meeting him today? Is there...is there precedent for, uhm, that? Like, a dress code?”

To be frank, Caleb doesn't know. He's smart, and talented, but he grew up in the ass end of Nowhere and things like noble upbringings still confuse him. Tirich taught him much, but that didn't change the fact that in the eyes of society, he was nothing, and will continue to be nothing. His knowledge of codes and what silverware to use at dinner parties to avoid starting a family blood feud is minimal, to say the least.

“Wait, ‘you’? Not ‘we’?” Beau nearly knocks over her own mug with a jerk of an elbow, narrowly avoided only because Molly moves it before she's even twitched. Caleb doesn't bother staring, or questioning it. It is far too early.

Jester snaps to attention and frowns, then says, “You'll be with us, won't you Yasha?”

But the barbarian only gives a timid smile and shakes her head, clear grey and blue eyes darting to Molly as if in on a secret, then away.

Caleb does so love blatant secrets he will never get the answer to. Oh joy.

“Ah, no, I have some business to take care of once you all leave,” She begins, then rushes to continue when Jester looks ready to leap out of her chair, “But I will be back soon! It is only a small errand. I will be with you for the future afterwards.”

Caleb expects Molly to protest just as loudly as the others, but he only looks somewhat satisfied, idly sipping the tea they've been sharing and watching Nott shovel food into her mouth with a sort of disgusted fascination. Undoubtedly, then, they discussed this before she told the rest of them.

He wonders, in the way that he catches himself doing more and more lately, if Molly loves her like Caleb loves Nott. From the way her eyes stray hesitatingly towards Beau, then away, it's not a romantic relationships, but he isn't the best judge of that. He also has to wonder where the sudden curiosity is coming from.

Maybe not now, though. Later, he can poke the proverbial beehive with a stick.

“Don't suppose you'll tell us what you're gonna run off ‘n do?” Fjord questions, but it's clear he knows the answer well before she gives him a polite smile and shakes her head. He can't tell why the man bothers, but maybe for someone who clearly gives a rats ass about honor and the law, less secrets means a better time.

“Well I, for one, would like to know where we'll be meeting this ‘Gentleman’.” Molly sighs, chin resting in his palm, tail languidly flicking along the skin of Caleb's wrist like a tiny reminder to keep his hands busy. It's distracting, but a good kind.

“Erm. About that.”

Everyone aside from Caleb turns to regard Nott, and she shoves her chair so close to her wizard companion that it lets out a shriek of protest in their ears at the mistreatment of the wood. He doesn't bother giving them some overt show of a threat. The sudden rise of temperature probably gives it away easily enough.

They settle, and apparently, take the hint quite well.

“It's nothing bad! It's just...he wants to meet us at his current place of residence because the guard did a surprise sweep for suspicious characters and he has to move to...which is to say, it’s a, ahaha...brothel.”

Beau looks a lot less crushed over Yasha's departure at this news, and he almost takes offense to it on Yasha's behalf. Shallow affections indeed.

Molly, on the other hand, looks far less pleased, even over Jester bursting into a song and dance about her mother and prostitution and the Ruby of the Sea.

“A whore house? Distasteful.”

This is, to say the very least, a surprise.

“What, got a problem with workin’ girls? Er, and guys?” Beau whips around and pinpoints Molly with the look of someone who's ready to crack her knuckles and dive in, but the tiefling looks so much like he's growing genuinely frustrated that it gives her pause. Maybe it's that animal instinct of facing down far bigger prey she feels, or maybe it's just the unfamiliarity of the sudden aggression. Either way, Caleb is grateful. He isn't sure she can take him.

“Hardly, what you do to make ends meet is neither my business nor something I care to scrutinize. But do you know how powerful my sense of smell and hearing is? This will be a nightmare. Just because I appreciate someone who works hard at their job doesn't mean I want to smell just how WELL they're doing it.” His deep voice is so sullen, so petulant that Caleb let's himself laugh, just briefly, and sink into his side, eyes falling shut against the sunshine smile of Jester and the quirked lips of Fjord, unwilling to look them dead in the eye and see how they feel for him.

“Mister Mollymauk, I am so very sorry for laughing at your expense, but it is a strange thing to hear. Can you enjoy nothing loud because of these abilities?” He wonders, letting his head fall to the others jacket covered shoulder, and if anyone else notices Molly run his fingers along the skin peeking out from underneath Caleb's shirt, they don't mention it.

“I can, it's just a one way ticket to a headache. An exercise in misery, if you will, like a battering ram against my skull. Perfume and sex and sweat and blood all swirling together into an awful cocktail of horror. Never mind the sounds, god, the sounds. I'll have to go in with none of my senses working. It's hardly as if a masked tiefling will look out of place in such a business anyway.”

Caleb would actually rather not think of that when in full view of everyone, thanks though.

Nott slurps syrup off her talons and tries to speak over the mesh of food, a mangled attempt at “Ish from muh contactsh!” that has Fjord flinching away from the spray of sticky crumbs and Molly feeding her something new to see what it looks like afterwards, or if she'll even notice the taste, presumably. Could be that he just has a mothering instinct to rival Nott herself, in which case the human fears for his life.

“Are both of y'all this gross or is it just her?”

Caleb idly stirs a sugar cube into his tea and contemplates if it's hot enough to burn if splashed onto someone's skin. Probably not anymore. More's the pity.

“I've glanced over a map of the city already but I'm guessin’ this brothel isn't just out in the open and on an easily accessible main road, right?” Beau inquires, and Molly dips his head in absentminded acknowledgement as he looks at the small map the monk has produced and spread out as best she can with plates and mugs in the way.

The tip of his bejeweled tail hesitantly pulls away and trails along a side street on the crinkled paper, then abruptly stops on a nearly invisible path leading to a home far behind the tavern. There's nothing that names who it belongs to specifically, though he can guess, only a name for the shop on the ground floor of the home.

Amoransa's Aromatics.

Caleb wrinkles his nose and pulls back from the table, dragging his plate along with him as he does. An oil shop? Hardly the best guise for a brothel, but then, this side of the city promises just a little more privacy than anywhere else, so close to the wall but surrounded by less suspicious shops. He pulls his legs up to his chest as if defensive, then settles when Nott bumps against his foot accidentally. Right, well, at least he won't be facing it alone.

“The Gentleman normally wouldn't be caught dead there but he's kind of out of options. My, uh, ‘friends’ tell me there's been a string of hits ordered on officials and visiting nobles in the city lately and the guard are finally gettin’ their heads out of their asses and looking around cause of it! We've never been because…well, you know, but Caleb knows one of the girls, don't you Caleb?” Nott beams, and he huffs quietly, barely avoiding the gazes ranging from sly to thinly veiled displeasure. It's Molly who looks irate, but the wizard can hardly tell why, and feels his own frustration build at the constant wall he smashes into when it comes to answers. Too many variables as to WHY he'd be angry. It's useless to speculate, and probably even worse to ask.

“Ja, I helped her once, to get her out of a contract as a working girl so she could marry without scrutiny or be possibly denied. She just cleans now, I think? It has been, ah, awhile, really.” He stumbles as he talks, and pushes his annoyance down when Molly's brow smooths over. He's not pleased, clearly, but he isn't...DISPLEASED anymore either.

Somehow, it doesn't make Caleb feel any better about it. Imagine that.

“How long did you stay here?” Jester asks excitedly, with her usual attempt at an inside voice, and Nott pulls herself into Caleb's lap with practiced ease, clearly judging if it's worth it to attempt to fit on his shoulders as she once used to be able to do. Whatever she finds, she only nods and let's herself relax into his familiar scent of books, vanilla candle wax and forest.

He shrugs, and tries not to make it seem like he's avoiding the question. He's not, exactly, but it's hardly as if he's keen on divulging more than he needs to. This is already a big gamble he's taking for them all.

“A few months. We did one big job and then decided it wasn't for us, and moved on. We just...go where we want, I, I guess?”

Unsurprisingly, Yasha seems to soften, her tension easing from her shoulders where she stands in the back of the room and away from proceedings. It's a sharp contrast, the sudden difference he sees from how she holds Fjord, Jester, even Beau at a distance, and this new side, this warm, familial side undoubtedly saved for Molly.

“Mm, me too. I'm glad we both get to, erm, settle down for a little, during this adventure. My clan moved too much for that.”

It's not news to Molly, clearly, but he still looks...surprised. Strange.

“What was your clan like? Did you dance naked under the full moon? Hunt by jumping from tree branch to tree branch? Face down dragons in the mountains?” Jester's voice rises as she throws out the questions, at least not loud enough to carry downstairs, but she stops, abruptly, and frowns.

He sees why immediately.

Yasha's face, once open and curious, stutters to a complete and total stop at the questioning, and Caleb feels it, deep in his bones, the grief that paints itself over her sharp features, shining through her eyes. She has lost someone she loved, and it is an open wound that threatens to pull and fester the more it's exposed.

“Clan matters are usually sacred and private, Jester, best leave it alone.” He murmurs, and he's sure it's only the whites of his knuckles from where he's gripping his plate that gets her to move on.

A purple tail wraps tight around his thigh, squeezes once, then let's go.

“Er, right, so a, uh, brothel disguised as an...oil shop. At least it ain't too far from here. We all goin’ in or…?”

Irritatingly, everyone turns their eyes to him, as if he knows the proper way about this. Did they not catch the part where his only active connection on the inside is a prostitute turned serving girl? Though, he admits to himself, having jurisdiction amongst them gives him valuable sway in case he reveals something by accident.

So he says, “Nott should slip in with us then go snooping around after we've bypassed the shop itself, she's very good at being invisible when in plain view. As for the rest of us, bar Yasha of course…” then stops for a second, pulling his bottom lip with his teeth and letting the sting temporarily wash out the muted conversations he can hear just barely above his own thoughts.

Nott gathering even the smallest of gossip will undoubtedly help them in the future, be it with his own mission or simply some irrelevant task they stumble into on their guided journey. It serves to be one step ahead of them in this game, and thankfully, they don't even know they're playing it.

As for the entire group, admittedly, he'd prefer to not have Molly or Jester be submitted to a...blood donation. Least of all because Molly is a blood hunter and his blood is undoubtedly different or outright expensive to the right people. They are not family, no, that is for Nott alone, but they are friends, maybe, if they'd like to be. He supposes that's the trouble with making meaningful connections. You become disgustingly attached to their wellbeing.

“The rest of us will split into groups. Molly and Jester, I want the two of you in the brothel itself. You're the two most obvious people here and stand out even amongst your own kind, so you'll be helping Nott and keeping an eye out for trouble in case someone doesn't take too kindly to a goblin wandering around,” He pauses at Nott's sudden indignation and teasingly tugs a lock of her hair before she can shove at him uselessly, then continues with, “Yes, liebling, I know you can take care of yourself, but bitte, please, do not be stubborn over protection. As for the three of us, we'll be meeting the Gentleman himself. Fjord because you're good at talking, Beau in case we need someone who can hit people really hard, and me for my previous connection. Also, a raging fire in an enclosed space tends to put a quick stop to a battle. Objections? No? Well, let’s get this over with then.”

His throat feels coarse after the long winded plan, but a sip of warm tea keeps the faint pain at bay before he stands. The healing in the mine helped, but waking up by screaming himself hoarse from nightmares tends to set such progress back. Waking afterwards is nearly as bad as the visions themselves, Beau unable to meet his eye, Fjord and Yasha politely looking away, Molly subdued, quiet, always so suspiciously silent, and Nott and Jester firm pressures against his body even when he doesn't think he can take the touch. He hates the silent glances, the fucking pity. At the very least, from Nott it is compassion.

He finds that his hands are shaking, and has to stuff them into his coat pockets to hide the mounting fury and determination.

He does not DESERVE pity. He has killed people for less than that, even, and has tortured five people for information now. He has crippled and maimed and slaughtered in the name of vengeance and he will do it again, and again, and again, until he holds Trent's still warm heart in the palm of his fucking hand. It is not justice that drives him, he isn't a crusader looking to help the common people. Justice would be looking for evidence of wrongdoing, but in the eyes of the Empire? Well, it was perfectly reasonable. It was expected, in the eyes of the “law”. Does their merciless God of justice look on as her people cut down their own and say ‘yes, this is what I want.’, he wonders? A trial will not help him now, divine intervention won't either, and he does not want them to. He wants to look Trent in the eye when he kills him, wants to watch the life leave him, just as he was forced to watch the same for his mother, and then he wants the whole god damn monarchy to burn afterwards, though he knows that's an unattainable goal in the long run.

‘At least,’ he thinks, ‘I'll get to take a few of them with me.’

~°~

Amoransa's Aromatics is so obviously a brothel that Caleb finds it hard to believe it hasn't been raided yet, but he's well aware the Gentleman has contacts with people who have even better ones, so he doesn't bother asking why aloud.

The entire building is gaudy, the windows made from stained multicolored glass and the walls all but dragged down by enchanted tapestries displaying stories of courtesans and love stories, and two women linger outside of it smoking something with an awful citrus scent, a human and an elf, both standing so close their chests press together. They look like they've been standing there awhile. Hecklers, probably, but he recognizes one of them.

“Oi, Little Red, I recognize you! You's the one that got Ally outta this job so she could settle down!” The human grins as he approaches, her companion watching bemusedly from the side, and he bows dramatically before her.

“So I am. Been awhile, Lady Curious, how is Aladora doing?”

Curi snorts, unbecoming of a little noble lady such as herself, not that she gives a shit about her title, and puts her smoke out against her scarred palm. Most women of pleasure have scars, he's noticed, but usually it's the ones from the lower towns. Less protection, less of a proper reputation. The brothel in the upper town is filled with “escorts” and “ladies of the night”, and lower town is degraded to “whores” and “harlots”. At least the local men and women treat their workers with respect.

“Ain't no fuckin lady any more, ain't you heard? Paps finally gave up on draggin’ my ass home an said fuck ‘em. Guess poor lil' Vivienne's gonna be the one to pop out a baby with that rich prick of a fiance he had for me instead. Just what the ol’ girl always wanted.”

Fjord coughs into his arm at her spiel, and Caleb takes special delight in the leer the human sends his way at the noise, her striking red hair and makeup dragging his attention every which way, but she doesn't posture for him, and all the better, based on the way Jester eyes the nearest dark side street.

“Sorry darlin’, I don't rent out to men. Not my kinda treat.” The smile she sends to Beau at that is outright dangerous, and the monk goes a suspicious shade of red when she catches it.

Perhaps, if the assault of smells and sounds doesn't kill Mollymauk, he'll drag them to places like this more often, just for their mortification.

“Whether Beauregard wishes to pay for your services or not is irrelevant right now, Curi, I need to talk to Aladora.” He interrupts, after a small drawn out moment where Beau scrambles to give the woman a response that isn't just something tactless to do with her tits. It's almost a shame to do so, honestly.

“Yeah, alright. Her wife was just by to drop off something for our ‘esteemed’ guest. Mountain of a woman, that one, could have me walkin’ funny for days. Shame Ally has a jealous streak a mile wide, innit?” Curi sighs and nudges the elf towards the door, who only playfully slaps at her ass and let's her glide past, clearly content to stay out of the way and bring in a few more tired customers. She won't get much luck, not at this time of day, but he admires the tenacity. Or perhaps she just doesn't feel like working up a sweat.

“I'll uh, I'll be going now. Take care, Molly. You all too.” Yasha coughs, and her hesitance is drawn out only for a second before she bends down just a little to draw Molly into a bone crushing hug he doesn't even seem to feel. Their relationship makes him curious, admittedly, but not enough to linger. He steps past the door, and gives the bouncer playing as a shopkeep only a passing glance before he's whisked into the backrooms and the door shuts behind them with a soft click.

What was undoubtedly meant to be a kitchen and dining room for lavish parties has been hollowed out and filled with pillows and couches, scantily clad men and women of all sorts of races either leading someone upstairs to a private room or entertaining them downstairs for a few quick coins. Some people just come to talk to the workers after a hard day of barely paid labor. Maybe their spouses won't do them that service, and they can't find anyone else to talk to. Of course, it could be that their partner isn't satisfying them in a physical way and they've sought out someone new, but the thought makes him feel distinctly like starting a fire, so he turns his attention to the less likely option.

Curi returns to the main entrance seconds later, dragging an older woman along with her, what looks like a riding crop now in hand, and Beau looks so interested in the sight that even Caleb feels a little flushed. She has no sense of proprietary, apparently.

“Found ‘er! And a customer. Sweet little thing, she is, til you find out she likes it when it hurts. And you, cherry tits, I see that look! Come find me once whatever y'all are up to is done, yeah?” She says, does an extravagant curtsy, and glides right back up the stairs, leaving behind a somewhat starstruck Beau and his old contact.

“Aladora. I see marriage suits you well.” He hums, and it's true.

She's short, only reaches Jester's height, but the shrewd expression she has naturally gives away her age, though it hardly detracts from her beauty. She had been a popular woman, and the exotic white of her hair so uncommon in humans undoubtedly has something to do with that lingering reputation. He knows from only one meeting that though her wife, who towers over most men and works herself to the bone in an inherited blacksmith, is the brawn of the relationship, Aladora still runs everything else with an iron fist. Morvan was a besotted woman anytime her wife was around, and he has little doubt that it's still the case so long later.

“Flattery from you means you want something even after all this time, and considering the group you've got, I'll say it's to do with Jezebel's guest. He's in the backroom, been staying with Jez lately, and his cronies are spread out everywhere. Least he made it clear they didn't have unrestricted access to us and still had to pay to get handsy.” She doesn't waste time, and he smiles at her, a tad warmly, noting both Nott, who's already stuffed two rings into her pockets and is creeping around the darker side of the room, and Molly, who came in during the wait.

Caleb sighs and says, “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Jezebel never did care much for watching everyone properly, just leaves it all up to you.” And keeps himself still when Mollymauk curls into him and buries his nose into his hair as if it'll block out the smell of cheap perfume and...other unidentifiable liquids. He supposes a little sympathy is in order, but he's never been the nicest person in the world. He can hide his laughter maybe. Or try, anyway.

“Well, she's a bitch, so it's nothing new.” Aladora waves her hand flippantly and eyes the way the colorful tiefling fumes silently and leans as best he can into the familiar body, clearly overwhelmed. He can't tell if she's amused or reminiscing on something horribly sappy about her wife. He decides, promptly, that he doesn't want to know, or sharing a space with Molly will become tense and then he'll have to kill her for it.

Jester pushes past Fjord's form, apparently having given up on shielding him from the gazes of the courtesans and entirely unaware of the way they eye her just as if not more excitably, and skips past the lot of them, so relaxed he has to wonder if she's taken a job as a prostitute before or if it's because of her childhood. It wouldn't surprise him, and would almost certainly explain her lack of boundaries. Growing up around sex workers would probably do that to you, but he can't blame her mother for it either, especially depending on their location and actual standard income.

“This is so familiar, though a little shabby, you should get some rich guy in here with a favorite like my mama did! It's so pretty, too, do you think I could buy one of those curtains to make into a dress?” She wonders, much to the amusement of a half elf male wearing only a pair of silk pants, and with a warm laugh he manages to get her into his lap and start up a conversation. He's attractive, in a “I have an ego bigger than my dick so the sex is probably mediocre at best” kind of way. Sort of like sons of politicians.

Well, at least she won't be there for the meeting, if the way he settles down with her is any given. Not that he's under any illusion that she'll be sleeping with him. He has a sneaking suspicion she thinks she's made a new friend and nothing more.

“Don't suppose I want to ask about your...associates. I'll take you to him now.” The human shrugs at the display, her apron swishing as she turns pointedly on her heel and marches towards the door next to the staircase, though doesn't miss the opportunity to smack her dishrag against the half elf's skull as she goes by with a sharp bark of “knock it off” in Zemnian when his hands go a little lower than Jester's sides. Fjord looks grateful at her assistance, but not put out by the connotations of the position. Interesting.

Molly clinging to his side makes it distinctly hard to walk, but he can't find it in himself to complain, and the subtle strength he feels when he lets himself lean into the vague impression of an embrace is quietly reassuring. He's not nervous to meet with the Gentleman like Fjord clearly is, or keyed up in case of a fight like Beau, but he is anxious about his...later request. Getting the others out of the room is up to Nott, of course, but what he'll have to do for the confirmation he needs, for the information he can't get on his own, is out of his hands, and he hates being a pawn in a game not of his own creation. Whatever is asked of him in exchange will be entirely up the crimelord and whatever he thinks it's worth.

It also doesn't help that a tabaxi has been eyeing them like they’re prey since Molly joined them, and doesn't look pleased by what she finds.

She won't confront them, not all at once. She has a look of suspicion, and a little confusion, and whatever her connection, it's enough to keep her away for now. Someone from the blood hunters past, perhaps? It's intriguing, and the gamble he has to take by posing a soft, gentle warning in Zemnian next to Molly's ear by staging it as an affectionate nuzzle is well worth the reaction it gets him from the tiefling. The same level of confusion, then consuming disdain, like he's just bit into something rotten. It's the look of someone whose past has just caught up to them, and he is nearly breathless with the sudden curiosity such a simple revelation leaves him with. He finds that he wants to unravel the man like a ball of thread and pluck every string until he has the answers he's looking for, until Molly is spread before him with no secrets or crevices left to hide, and for just a second, only a tiny, flicker of a second, he hears the whisper of a name and the flash of an image in his mind.

Molly, long, long hair, no tattoos, face twisted into a snarl. But no, it's not Molly.

Lucien.

The tiefling rips himself away from Caleb and brings their short walk to a stand still, something like wonder trying to shine through his eyes, and then it's gone, locked behind so many walls of steel that he couldn't possibly hope to cut through.

“I'll be just at the bar, my heart. Fetch me when it's done.” He says, and unsteadily makes his way towards the row of chairs.

Caleb can't quite figure out what he's done, but it feels less like he's solved a mystery for himself, and instead finally given Molly the answer to a question he's long been asking.

~°~

It’s only after the other two have gotten their blood drawn and argued about it that he opens the door.

There's no one but the Gentleman lounging in Jezebel's room, though the sound of rushing water from an ajar door to the side suggests they aren't entirely alone. It's, frankly, just as gaudy as the outside of the building, and the mesh of colors is an insult even to Mollymauk.

He's just as overbearingly posh and smug looking as ever, and nothing he does implies he's bothered by the interruption the guards and their quarry have caused. Caleb supposes he's had a while to perfect that look of boredom in a mirror. What a dreadfully dull hobby that must have made.

“Wildfire? I must say, I am surprised. You and Nasha were insistent that the last job was truly the last you did for me. And now you are with company?”

Caleb let's himself sag forward in his ridiculous cushion seat, uncaring of appearances when it comes to just him, the crimelord, and his companions. The weight of his scheming won't start to take a toll until he has to make every memory a priority, but there's an exhaustion in him that says he needs to get that information, and soon. But first, the lie he had to come up with to get here in the first bloody place.

“Met up with us in Alfield, figured we'd all stick together, and said you'd be the best bet for a job for all of us.” Fjord smiles, and his charm is in full effect. It won't sway the man, but it'll amuse him enough to keep scrutiny at a minimum.

“Oh, did he now? Paranoid lot, those two. I do hope you and your other friends help with that. As for a job…you have excellent timing, Wildfire, though I'm sure you're semi aware of this. A ball is being held by one General Armand. It just so happens that I need him dead, and soon.”

Well, certainly, he isn't holding back.

He can't say he's surprised, though. Caleb never hid that he hated the Empire, still does. The man offering him this job is undoubtedly meant for him more than the others, and they're just a bonus.

“Now hold on, I ain't got no love for the Empire, but-”

The Gentleman laughs, so softly yet so clearly patronizing and knocks back a shot of vodka, seeming to barely even taste it, or care for the anger that writes over the pleasant facade Fjord once had. He says, “This is not against the Empire, in fact, they care little for him these days. He is a washed up soldier with a fortune he got from his late wife, and now he thinks by getting into the criminal side of this lovely city, he'll be reliving the glory of combat. And I can't have that, not from someone with old money connections, there is too much at stake and far too many variables for another piece on the board. This job won't even be traced back to us, what with the uprise in assassinations, either. The time to act is now. So either say yes, or do quit wasting my time.”

Fjord pauses, uncomfortable, and shakes his head in frustration, first glancing to Beau, who nods, and then to Caleb, who gives him a smile full of teeth. He does not have to spell out how much he wants this job.

“Yeah, alright. We'll take it. Be it on your head if the crown comes crackin’ down.” The half orc mumbles, and is only met with a mocking toast from the crimelord. When the other two rise, he does not join them, and knows by the expression on the Gentleman's face that Nott's Message has went through.

“Caleb?”

“I'm afraid I have a few details to discuss about his last job. Mainly, the follow up on wages that was sent to his nonexistent address after the ruse was no longer needed. Do get going.”

It leaves Fjord suspicious, if only barely, and Beau already hoofing it out with one thing on her mind that starts with C and ends with uri, so Caleb doesn't worry that the man will stay behind.

“Hell, whatever. We'll talk more about the job once we're back at the tavern. I gotta go make sure Jester ain't been convinced to run off with her new friend into the sunset.”

True enough, just as Nott slips in through the door, Fjord let's himself out, and doesn't even seem to have noticed the goblin in the first place, the room is so dark. Or she's just gotten very, very good.

“Ah, Nasha, good to see you as well.”

Nott snorts and takes up Fjord's vacated seat, clearly pleased by the jingling in her pockets that nets her only an amused and somewhat fond glance from the other, though how authentic that is is anyone's guess. She says, “Yeah, not likely. Your people are really easy to pickpocket, you should have them work on that.” Then excitedly shoves a signet ring of some sort into Caleb's hand. It's worth a pouch of gold at the very least. He'll use it to buy her some fancy soap shaped like something inappropriate in the market, maybe.

“If I did that, you'd be far less rich, Nasha. Now, tell me what this is really about.”

Caleb has to admit he's somewhat curious as to why the man suspects there's more to it and seemingly has since the beginning, but it seems less important than the conversation itself and getting the hell out of the room that’s starting to smell unpleasant. It could easily be because he's JUST that suspicious.

“I need information. Information that will actually require digging on your part. In exchange for it, I'll do a side job.” He admits, and watches silently as the Gentleman leans back, clearly intrigued.

“And what is it you want to know?”

Caleb puts his chin on his linked hands, elbows pushing uncomfortably into the table they've seated themselves at, and finally let's himself say it, “Heinrich, a soldier for the Empire. Eodwulf and Astrid, apprentices to a man named Trent. And then, of course, Trent himself. I need to know if any of them will be at the party, and if not, where they may be at.”

The crimelord does not say anything for a long while, then abruptly smiles and pours himself another drink. Caleb can't assess whether it's just because he wants to or because he needs some liquid courage, but the former is far more believable.

“I don't think I wish to know why you're tangling with an Archmage. What you do outside of our deals is none of my business, but DO tread lightly with him. Heinrich, though, that's a name I know of, barely. You need more than that, you'll do a job. Any job I pick, within reason, of course.”

“Yes.”

The man looks curious, but he isn't the type to pursue it, not with this. He gives a single nod, takes a drink, then settles back down.

“There's been signs of minor skirmishes far outside the city, a little too close to my liking, but no witnesses and no official intel on any reason why it'd be happening. Three days ago I sent a woman out to check the recent site at the time, and when there had been another one, we found her body there, run through by a sword with signs of frost, so an enchanted weapon at that. Yesterday I sent a firbolg, some cleric with a self imposed higher calling out to investigate, and he hasn't come back. Today, I'm sending you. Right now. Whatever this is, I have a bad feeling about it, and I want it fixed, soon.”

Caleb can readily admit that the knowledge of both a satisfactory reward and a very strange job makes his blood sing with yearning. He's all but ecstatic as he agrees, though he doesn't know just why he's so excited, and by Nott's raised eyebrow, she's noticed it too, but it's like a pull in his chest, a faint sense of want.

A feeling akin to hunger, even.

He pushes that strange thought aside, and doesn't wait around for the Gentleman to dismiss him. The man has already gone back to waiting for his companion in the bath, and neither of them are keen on getting in the way of...that.

He let's Nott slip past him through the door, then shuts it behind him swiftly when he sees movement in his peripheral vision.

There is a tiefling, just barely in view enough for him to see, watching him, shadowed within a doorway near the stairs.

His vibrant green skin and twisted, curving horns that reach back from his skull should make him stand out, but no one seems to notice him, as if deterred by the man himself to look the other way and forget. Glistening black scales stretch up his neck, and when Caleb meets the serpentine eyes of the man, he's met with a dazzling smile that makes something pleasant squirm in his stomach, begging for attention.

And then Molly calls his name, warm and inviting from the bar where the rest have gathered, and whatever it is that tried to take root disappears just as fast.

 

Caleb blinks, and the tiefling is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caleb: *has something ominous happen to him*  
> Caleb: guess it was the wind ://
> 
> Honestly this would have been out sooner if I hadn't discovered The Arcana and promptly fell so far for Asra (who is basically human Mollymauk) that I hit Minecraft bedrock. I am in Lucio hell and no one can save me.
> 
> Why do I pack my chapters so tightly with so many words of ABSOLUTELY nothing this is literally nearly 10k and it has like three scenes.
> 
> 30 points to Slytherin if you guess what's going on with that last bit of the chapter hoho and what's this? Molly's reckless actions have led to him running into someone he doesn't know but who knows the body he shoved himself into? Shocker. Who would have seen this coming? Me. The answer is me.
> 
> Final note, I dedicate this monster that caused me consistent self doubt to my muse and best friend K, he will never see it if the Gods have any capacity for mercy but I love him and his dealings with my rambling at 3 AM all the same.


	10. A Night Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Predictions for the comments this chapter are one of two things:
> 
> Someone going Sherlock over my neon sign foreshadowing
> 
> Everyone else crying at various levels of sound over the ending

(-That silhouette creates an image on the night I can't forget, it has the scent of something special, I can't rest, if I resist temptation, oh I know for sure that I will lose the bet-)

Only four months before the massacre occurred, Caleb met a boy named Emili, a merchant's son from the south, stranded temporarily because of snow storms.

He can remember being singled out by him, how flattered he was, the shy flirtation and clumsy attempts at childish courtship both knew wasn't serious. Though wary, Tirich had backed off and lent his support in other ways, keeping animals away from picnics and keeping them cool in shade that should have long since been overtaken by the sun. It had been fun. It had been...new.

It was also the one and only time he had ever had sex.

It isn't to say that he can't, or is like Nott in a simple lack of desire for such intimacy, but just that he hasn't had the time, or the focus. Being in a brothel only makes his lack of experience at his age seem embarrassing. He knows it shouldn't be, he knows that he has no reason to feel shame, but everyone seems so comfortable with what they've done that he feels himself retreat into his coat the longer they speak of it. What is his fumbling experience when he was merely a boy compared to the easy sway Beau has over the courtesans? What is his vague knowledge of his wants compared to the obvious desire in the faces of others when faced with Molly's slender and strong beauty? It isn't even as if he can compare to half of them. The only thing he has going for him is Molly's claims to care, and even that is platonic in its nature. He wants to be jealous and possessive, but he has no right, and the instinct fizzles out into nothing when he refuses to stoke the wood with which it would burn.

It is curious, he admits to himself over the rim of a wine glass, that Molly's most ardent admirer is not even watching for his sexuality.

She does not eye his curves, nor does she appreciate his firm shoulders. Her eyes do not linger on the teasing curl of his tail, and she has no desire to feel those teeth sink easily into her flesh like so many others clearly do, like he does late at night when he feels most alone. Her gaze is confused and disdainful and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit hurt, the pain of a friend who has went unacknowledged in a crowd of people despite being seen. It is so unlike Molly, too, to spurn someone like that, and though he is clearly aware of her presence, he does not seem to think it familiar.

Caleb looks away from the stalemate and let's the sweet Crème de Menthe slide down his throat, tingling delightfully across his tongue with little sparks of magic from the dazzling grey Genasi tending the bar, who's snow white hair floats lazily around his face as if supported by strings. He's pretty, young, and even his name, Oksana, is inviting. He's the kind of person you just can't help but want to speak to.

The wind that smashes a nobles face into the bar when he doesn't take no for an answer tells Caleb another story, and he idly chews on a grape as he observes the limp man get dragged towards the cellar stairs by two half-orcs to what he can only assume is Jezebel's holding area for those that think they can walk above her rules. He has little respect for her, but he can grudgingly admit she keeps her employees as safe as can be without being able to have trained guards keeping the peace.

“What in the world are you drinking?” Molly questions from his left, seeming to finally have had enough of the pawing from his little fans and deigned to rejoin Caleb once bored.

The wizard downs the rest of his drink to avoid speaking and slides it to an already irate Oksana for a refill. So maybe he's a little jealous. Just a smidge.

“Mint alcohol. It's sweet and makes me look marginally less like a coward than if I ordered milk.” He shrugs, then, and doesn't even bother protesting when the bartender just hands him the bottle and tries his hardest to block out the conversation around him. A true delight to be around, clearly.

“I figured you as a whiskey kind of person, truth be told. Whiskey in one hand, lover in another.”

“I'm not that kind of boy.” Caleb replies, then takes a swig of the beverage meant more for sipping just to keep his damn mouth shut, preening only slightly when it goes down as smooth as water. He probably shouldn't be proud of it, but he has little else to be proud of in his life.

“You look like you're having tragic thoughts, darling. Are you a morbid drunk? I shouldn't be surprised.” Molly pushes on as if Caleb has bothered to defend himself (which he has not), and urges their legs to tangle in the space between their chairs, a fond expression settling over his face just long enough for Caleb to get a look at before being locked away safely, just between them.

At this point he can't tell if the flush is from the affection or because he's drank more than he should. His pride says the latter, so the latter it must be, and if he has to duck his head until he doesn't feel like the sun has just turned its gaze of his face, well, no one is watching him close enough to point it out.

Is this the new fad for courtship? Are these mixed signals and he's just not entirely aware? It's not like he'd bloody well KNOW, he's only been out of jail for three years.

“Are you sure you should act so casual with that tabaxi looking as if you've murdered her dog?”

He feels only a little bad when the question nets him a slump of shoulders and clear irritation, albeit not aimed at him. He doesn't have it quite in him to feel guilt over his curiosity.

“Well if she isn't going to approach me then I'll do as I please, dearest. I don't know her and I don't wish to either.”

Caleb mock gasps and leans his shoulder against Molly's, something like contentment settling in his chest when the tiefling takes the opportunity to tangle his tail with their mess of limbs, then says, “How rude, Mister Mollymauk! Did your mother teach you no manners?”

The blood hunter steals his bottle in response, and doesn't bother pretending to redirect the conversation. Caleb can't bring himself to pursue the questioning just yet.

“Thief. Be careful you don't get Nott's attention or she'll kill you for taking her role.”

“No, no, let him have the damn thing. I'll resteal the things he steals and sell them for your dowry.”

Speak of the devil herself. Caleb doesn't bother moving from the comfortable spot he's dug himself into at Molly's side even as her wide yellow eyes take in all there is to see and probably more. The alcohol isn't enough to take away his ability to think, but it's enough to lower his walls just enough not to care about hiding and keeping himself locked up tighter than a Bahamut priestess. He wants to feel the silk smooth skin against his own, in any way he can, and he doesn't care to be afraid of it right now. Lust is better than its counterpart, anyway, and he'd really rather not think of that.

“If you can ever find someone willing to marry me, have at it.” He muses, head tipping until he can feel the brush of hard bone against his hair and feels the cold chains that wrap around the horn dig into his skull, the pressure making him sink further into the body beside him. He's not seriously thought of that kind of life in…awhile, clearly. They've never been able to afford to get close to others until now, but even as they've let people in, there's so much still they're keeping from the rest. You can build a relationship on a foundation of half truths, but it's hardly recommended.

Eventually, everything will come tumbling down.

Molly's claws card through his hair and work out small tangles, the motion relaxing, but his attention sneaks to the corner of the room with the irate tabaxi more than it lingers on the conversation beside him, and Caleb finds the half hearted focus far less appealing because of it. Not that he'll say so unless under threat of dismemberment, but it's enough dissatisfaction to motivate him to grab the bottle by the neck, toss a coin pouch towards Oksana, and manoeuver out from the elaborate puzzle they've made of their limbs to get back to the rest of the group conversing at a private table, the tieflings hand retreating only when it's clear he won't be persuaded to stay.

Nott follows, then with some hesitation, Molly does as well, something unreadable flashing across his face the moment Caleb's stepped away far enough, and it burns like vodka in his stomach, hot like coals and maybe, a little bit vicious.

The group is subdued by the time they've reached them, the pensive silence practically tangible in the air between them. He sighs and slips into a seat beside Jester, letting the cool bottle tip back, the alcohol only serving as a bitter momentary distraction from his troubles. Out of a bad situation and into a worse one.

Molly becomes an immediate solid weight against his side, the tiefling so close in his space that his senses are alight with the smell of lavender and something familiar, like a teasing hint of magic he wants to capture with his mouth and press his tongue against, but the comfort is minimal, and the desire so muted in front of so many people that he can barely let himself worry about it. A part of him wants to offer himself just to get it out of his system, but his own insecurities and fear of escalation keep the words in his throat. Then, though, it might just be incredibly tasteless to proposition a friend in a whorehouse, of all places. A question to ask Fjord perhaps.

“Well, this is depressing. Who died?” Nott snorts, jumping onto Beau's lap, then onto the table, bare feet swinging beneath her while she faces away from the others. It's kind of surprising that she doesn't feel so paranoid as to hesitate to give them access to a blind spot.

Fjord nods, then, and shoves a rolled up map across the table towards her, hands reaching up to run across his face afterwards, as if the worlds weight has finally taken its toll. Perhaps, to him, it has.

The goblin let's the parchment stretch out, and Molly whistles, sounding almost amused, but when Caleb glances up, the tiefling isn't even looking at the map, only at everyone's reactions. He can see why some are uncomfortable, admittedly.

The visual it paints is...not fun. The mansion the party is set in is a nightmare of winding corridors, strange room placements and even stranger guard rotations. The targets room isn't even listed, which is a whole other problem. The intel, clearly, is awful.

“I suppose we know why no one was already on this job before we got here.” He murmurs, twisting the map around to face him so he can trace his fingers along a row of guest rooms. Someone from his past may be placed there, so close to his grasping hands. It's merely a taste of the revenge he craves, and his stomach lurches with the effort of restraining his magic from the tangle of emotions it sparks from.

“With seven people it might be manageable but that's assuming Yasha gets back on time, and even then we don't even know when the party is supposed to kick in to full swing because nothing is done yet. Invitations have apparently only just been sent.” The half-orc blows out a breath and downs a shot of something that smells dwarven, his brow wrinkled in either stress or distaste. “We're going in blind and deaf at this point. We need more.”

Caleb let's himself smile, briefly. They really do make it too easy. Perhaps Molly is right, and there is a God out there guiding him towards his goals. Too bad he's already taken.

“Well, I was offered a second, optional job while discussing my last job with him, but it's not one I can do with the whole group. I get to pick my reward.” He shrugs, easy as you please like this isn't vital to his plans, and Nott smiles that little grin of hers like Frumpkin when he's given expensive cream.

Beau raises an eyebrow and let's her feet fall from Jester's lap, staff slung unceremoniously across her own almost falling at the movement. “Can't bring all of us?”

“We need someone here to gather information about the party and plan how we're going to even get in, ja? I do not have many details on this job, either. I would prefer going in small with as quiet a group as possible.”

Molly stills beside him, and Caleb doesn't have to glance at him to know he's displeased with the idea of possibly being left behind. Lucky for him, he's quieter than the others. Tirich knows he'd never bring Jester or Beau, and Fjord is the best choice amongst them to get what they'll need for when he comes back. The only other person he plans to bring is Nott.

It doesn't hurt that they're the only two people he trusts to help him with this anyway.

“I do appreciate independence, my darling, but I hope you realize I'm going with you on this one.” Molly says, command clear in his voice, something heated that makes his stomach clench and his head spin just a little.

“Even if I didn't agree, I have a feeling you'd show up anyway.” He replies, dryly, and is met only with a sharp smile that looks less like a grin and more like a baring of teeth. The fact that it does little to push away the desire simmering in his hips is a tad bit uncomfortable. Now is not the time for sexual revelations. Ironic, considering their location.

Fjord looks vaguely ill at their flirting.

“Right, so what is it you're gonna do, exactly?”

Caleb opens his mouth, but stops, abruptly, as a body curves around his own, back meeting a strong chest, two arms snaking around to cage him in like the bars of an animal exhibit, choking and unwanted, and he thinks he feels something in his mind all but snarl at the contact like some sort of feral animal backed into a corner. A green hand splays across the table from behind him, wicked claws clicking like snapped bones against the hardwood, and the group falls silent, all eyes turning towards his back, but he already knows who it is before they even speak.

“You'll be treading through swamp territory I'm afraid, mon cher. Labenda swamp is home to many dangerous creatures.” Breathes a soft voice, accent tinted with something unfamiliar but at best might be something from the Coast, cold puffs of air against his hair making lightning crackle under his skin.

Caleb inclines his head and meets the serpentine gaze of the tiefling from before, his jaw set, challenge clear in his own eyes, and the man smiles, something like a hiss expelling from his throat. He doesn't move to stop boxing Caleb in, and Molly visibly bristles at his side, emotions playing clear across his face. Were he not currently dealing with a Bad Touch, it'd almost be fascinating to see a loss of control in someone like him.

“Uh huh. Well, you gonna introduce yourself first, friend?” Fjord asks, cautious, eyebrow raised, and the tiefling spares him a glance, the tension crackling between them softening when not given immediate attention.

“Oh, of course, my apologies. Astaire, at your service.” Astaire bows his head, silken black hair falling in waves around his face, then glides away towards the half-orc with only a lingering touch of ice cold hands across the back of his neck like a brand he knows he won't be able to scratch off so soon.

Something about the man is distinctly unnatural and eerily similar to Mollymauk, if a little less potent. His movements are fluid and swift, but there are never pauses or hesitations like someone in thought would undoubtedly have, every single move calculated from his own breathing to the way his head sways when he walks. It's less Other and more...just plain old strange.

“I work for an outside source, but the money here is good sometimes, so I'll be the one to guide you where you need to go with these little jobs you've taken on. Two at once, hm? Certainly ambitious.” He chuckles, soft, and it feels like a further caress from those icy claws across his cheek, leaving him chilled and faintly confused, a little off center like he's been spun around a few times then pulled to a stand still. Only Molly's overbearing heat pressed almost painfully against him keeps him tethered, and what an anchor it is. Even with this, feeling as if his head has been shoved under water, he can feel the hatred the tiefling produces coming off in waves, soaking into his skin and chasing away the man's unnatural touch.

Aren't tieflings supposed to run hot?

“‘The money is good.’” Molly barks back, voice sharp and spitting, acidic like spider venom, but if Astaire is surprised, it doesn't show. If anything, he seems pleased.

“Mm, just as I said. The first job is going to take awhile to prepare for, plenty of time for your...friend to get through the second job.” He says, and Caleb has to hide a flinch at the stressed ‘friend’. Whoever he is, he knows more than he should. Curious, but also dangerous.

Jester, who's so far kept strangely silent, finally speaks up, her voice falsely enthusiastic despite the winding agitation choking the air around them like a bubble that visibly seems to keep people away. Small mercies, Caleb supposes, and let's his fingers tangle with Molly's just in case the other man takes it upon himself to defend his good name and murder the smug scaled bastard leering at them.

“You're being very creepy! That's just a stereotype for tieflings, you know, you don't have to perpetuate it!” She grins, and instead of cutting through the tension it more or less gets stuck in it halfway through and refuses to budge.

“What a cheerful girl you are, delightful! Much better than the rest of you morose bastards.” Astaire clicks his tongue, and though it's an insult, the tone is fond, “But I can see you lot are getting impatient. Mon cher, your job should be what you focus on instead of the ball. There'll be enough stress for that later. Bring no more than three more people, keeping this quiet and quick is your best shot at being safe.”

He can't tell if it's himself or Molly that twitches at the pet name, though at this point, maybe it doesn't matter. He has to wonder if they know each other, because the longer the thinly veiled prodding goes on, the more he sees how it's not a personal jab at himself. Astaire is winding Molly up, and hoping to watch him go, all by targeting Caleb. It's about as subtle as a rockslide admittedly, but that clearly isn't the point. He should probably be more irritated that he's being thrown around between two men like a chew toy but he can't really blame Molly.

Maybe he should though, because realistically, no one should know he'd be any sort of weak point, politely ignoring the fact that he's apparently important enough to be granted such a position in the first place.

Unless they've been followed, or watched, of course.

Caleb carefully files that observation, tucks it away, and says nothing about it.

“Molly and Nott will go with me. Fjord, you need to be here as a leader, Jester for costumes, and Beau for finding a way in as a backup plan. Assuming you all are okay with this?” He questions, softly, eyes straying to the warm body at his side and a subdued Nott on the other, though she looks comically offended at the very suggestion of separation.

It takes a few seconds of teeth grinding silence before Molly gives him a nod, but never do his eyes stray from the scaled assistant, eerily reminiscent of a predator sizing up a threat.

Or, he muses with a twitch of his lips, sizing up prey. It's hard to guess which Astaire is yet. In due time, then.

“Perfect then! Take this nifty little document, darlin’, and don't go sharing it with anyone, you'll know all you need from it. I do declare it's about time I be on my way, no? Keep me in mind if you need anything else, dear Caleb.” The accented tiefling chuckles, throwing a wave and a sealed parchment over his shoulder, and all but disappears into a small group of courtesans as if he hasn't approached at all. When they clear, he's nowhere to be seen, which is, admittedly, kind of unsettling. On a scale compared to Molly it's about a four.

“Well he was mildly upsetting.”

Wryly, Molly glances at Jester, his expression smoothing out the longer they're left alone until you wouldn't know at all that he'd been truly ready to leap across that table, consequences be damned. “Mildly isn't the word I'd use myself, sweetie, but it applies nonetheless. What a pain he must be for his family and friends. Unpleasant creature.”

Caleb snorts and arches his spine into the hand that settles over his neck and directly on top of the place Astaire had touched, a brand being cast off like rain on glass for something new, heavy on his skin and blistering in its intensity. He finds that he doesn't want the contact to end, and as if hearing his prayers, Molly doesn't let go, even at the lingering glances. It's strange how fast they settle into one another. He thinks maybe he should protest, fight tooth and nail for distance, but he can't bring himself to deny the anchoring pressure curved artfully around the vulnerable areas of his throat.

Displaying it to just about everyone in the group is a little bit much, though.

Beau huffs under her breath, moving faster now as if awakening from a dream, and throws back another shot of something that glows a toxic green before she says, “Alright, fuck it, weird encounters aside, he was at least a little helpful, right? Fuckin already tired of doing all this alone. Might as well take advantage of any outside help we're offered.”

“She's right, for once. Open the paper, Caleb!” Nott exclaims over Beau's indignation, tugging uselessly at his arm, then sighing in frustration when it takes even longer to unseal it.

Behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder, Molly begins to read aloud, breath heavy and pleasant against his ear, “Last skirmish on road to...atrocious handwriting, Hupperdook? I think? Hm, bodies left behind badly mutilated, most either dying from lacerations or unnaturally induced hypothermia, surrounding plant and animal life destroyed by unfamiliar dark magic, last known sighting headed towards swamp, nothing important along that-oh! Well, how handy. A small refuge for people working for him when they need to pass through the dangerous terrain alone. Should give us a safe place to sleep while hunting. And look here. Gold, for further enticement for such an interesting job.”

Nott grins and raises her flask in cheer, merrily hopping down from the table when Fjord settles the now riled party down a bit, but she doesn't go far from the rest, clearly antsy but willing to wait before throwing herself onto the dusty trail with Caleb and his new attachment joined at the hip. She doesn't seem annoyed, merely curious over how deep his desire runs. He isn't so sure he can reassure her at this point, not with what she's seen and no doubt heard.

“Ah hell, alright, settle down. Booze here is too expensive, we'll go back to the tavern, my--or Caleb's now--treat.”

The others laugh and tug on each other, even Molly barely suppresses a look of mirth, but Caleb's eye has caught on the lurking figure of a scaled tiefling watching from high above on the open plan of the second floor, like a gloomy reminder of things to come, an omen if he's ever seen one, but of what, he can't tell.

It's only as he's stepping past the threshold of the brothel, well wishes following, chiming like bells in his ears that he realizes he had never given Astaire his name.

~°~

They don't discuss the plan much, being as there really isn't one.

There's no way of seeing the carnage of the battles without going to them, and they're so spread out around the plains surrounding Zadash that it'd just be a waste of precious time. He notes, of course, the starting point, and the path whatever it is makes. Right towards the capital, which is...interesting.

It can't be more than a small group of fighters, or at the very least, a single strong combatant targeting isolated groups of people. What is their hope upon reaching the capital? Surely not invasion, of all things. With the Archmages stationed there it'd be little more than someone throwing a pebble in hopes that it will act like a boulder. Cutting through the swamp is a strange decision as well. Mountains and thick forests block the way forward, going around is all but necessary to reach the assumed goal. The only thing worth noting forward is an abandoned dwarven city, deep underneath the Silberquel Ridge, and the rumors of ancient dragons nesting in the sleeping halls are enough to quell any would be adventurers thinking of cutting through the time it takes to simply find a new route. 

Admittedly he doesn't fancy getting near the possible dragon nest either, but what's done is done, he thinks, and glances up from the campfire, spots dancing like fireflies across his field of view.

It's deep into the night now, the road leaving them weary but unharmed, suspiciously so. After hitting the halfway mark, any signs of other travelers, even bandits, dwindled spectacularly, and all of them had been tense because of it. There's something unnatural about the quiet of the area.

He finds that he can't remember the last time he heard birds.

There are no crickets, no owls or soft noises from fish in the waters before them. Only his own quiet, shaken breathing, Nott's snuffling in her sleep, and the crackling of flame.

Molly's breathing is silent, his body so very still where it sits across from him, eyes closed, chest barely rising.

Caleb finds that though the darkness that covers the lurking trees feels like a threat, turning his back on Mollymauk only makes him feel as if he's opened himself to something far more dangerous, a strangled and half baked protest from the front of his mind that can't decide what might be worse. Unfamiliar, all consuming darkness, or the alien predator he's found himself unfurling for, all from the lightest of affections.

“The way you're looking at me makes me wonder if I've done something wrong.” Molly murmurs to him, and Caleb has to swallow a yelp, attention snapping to the scarlet eyes peering at him from over the fire, like the Big Bad Wolf taking in Little Red Riding Hood on her lonesome self, but unwilling to approach the spitting flames. There's a wariness there he had not noticed before, just a bit. Reverence and unease at the flickers of embers. A shared fear, maybe.

Caleb soothes himself with half thought lullabies and pulls his legs to his chest, warm night air a loving embrace against his bare arms and ankles, coat draped over Nott and boots occupied by Frumpkin's sleeping form. He isn't entirely sure what to say, now, almost alone like this where only the moon might hear them, though he knows she will keep their whispered secrets safe. But will Molly?

“I am not upset with you, nein. Only...curious.” He has to yank the admission like a stubborn loose tooth, but it comes out anyway.

“Oh? I'm full of mystery, hardly surprising you're intrigued, my dearest. Tell me, what do you wish to know?”

It's a proper opportunity, isn't it? A chance to unravel the tangled knot that's been laid before him like a gift.

Something tells him, though, that he won't be given the whole truth. Mollymauk is a performer, after all, and he knows how to spin a story to awe the crowd while slipping their truths from their pockets and gathering all the cards, including his own, while leaving his patrons empty handed and ignorantly unaware. A master at his craft, and he's more impressed by it than he should be.

“I won't hear the truth from your mouth, though, will I?” He wonders, and his breath catches, just a little, when his words make Molly pause in all movements, from subtle twitching to breathing, before resuming in the mere blink of an eye, paused and then back again as if it hadn't happened at all.

Unnatural.

People don't act like that.

It's not as disconcerting as it should be, and that's what makes him wary. Not Molly.

Merely his reaction to him.

“You've certainly developed a negative view of me on our short little journey, haven't you?”

“I should hope your mother taught you how rude it is to answer a question with a question.” Caleb smiles, and the observations of the hour, of the Otherness and the inching revelation are blown away like sand in the palm of a hand at the smallest nudge of wind. He tries to bring back the line of thought, but can't find a single word that pops out. It's strange that he's losing focus like this so often, but perhaps it's the stress.

“I don't remember a mother ever being around.” Molly waves the playful accusation away, an answering smile working itself across painted lips that he thinks of laving his tongue against, just to chase the taste of crushed berries and something distinctly Mollymauk.

He wonders if Molly would let him.

“What about a father?”

The tiefling shrugs, so clearly unbothered by the thought of not having a family that Caleb feels just the slightest bit of envy towards him and his lack of ties to the world around him. It's all but sacrilege to even think about wanting it. His parents are dead, after all, and his mother raised him as best she could. His family hadn't been the greatest but when push came to shove they stood by him, and it isn't as if he blames Tirich, or feels any sort of wish for his worship of him to have never occurred.

But sometimes, he wonders at the life he could have lived without such interference. Maybe he wouldn't have even been born without that guiding hand, or maybe he'd be happy and married by now. There's no way to know, and the thought of trying to find a way to cut off even the most basic connection he has that lingers towards the long expanse of endless dark sky makes something long since gone quiet shudder with slick revulsion in his chest, just as it had with reaching tendrils of spider silk in the mine, just as it never has with heavy and claiming clawed hands on his bare skin.

Something to think about, is all, he notes, but he won't ever notice that the observation doesn't stick and meekly slides away instead.

“And you, my darling? What of your own parents?” Molly asks, his tone low and soothing, but the question still makes his stomach twist into knots of discomfort and grief, ever a gaping wound.

“Dead. Father was a soldier I believe. He never came back, but I didn't miss him. I wasn't meant to be born in his eyes. Mother was...she tried her best. She pushed until she had nothing left to give. And then she was taken from me.” He pauses, almost grateful for the lack of comment on his wet eyes, then continues, “A lot was taken from me. Maybe one day I'll get some of it back.”

Mollymauk makes a noise of comfort in his throat, like an owl cooing at it's chicks, and he finds that it, ridiculously, helps bring the anger down just a notch.

“I'm sure my sympathy means little, but you have it all the same. How'd you meet Nott, exactly? What’s the full story there?”

“Prison.” Caleb's grin is crooked and small but present nonetheless.

Molly blinks.

“Three years ago we met in this shit stain of a prison called the Pit. It's aptly named, too. We've been running with each other since. She takes care of me, and I try to do right by her.” He shrugs, and leans forward to let the heat of the open fire warm his chilled hands, his anxiety assuaged by the conversation and low timbre of Molly's voice, lilted accent like chocolate in his mouth.

“You got caught? Naughty boy.” Molly purrs, then clearly takes a special sort of delight in the flush that overtakes Caleb's face, his head ducking just to avoid further embarrassment.

Perhaps it says something about him that he doesn't mind being spoken to so intimately by someone when on the job, of all times. Is it so wrong to want to bask in pleasant company? He can't find that the Gentleman would scold him for it, not that he plans on telling the man.

An amusing reaction it'd cause, though. 

He snorts to himself at the thought and throws a piece of firewood on to the dancing blaze just to watch it soar, once more meeting Molly's dazzling smile, only a half hearted hesitance remaining. There is no one to judge him, out here, no one to watch and scorn the pleasure worming it's way through his stomach at such undivided attention. A bonus, he supposes, is there's no tabaxi out here for Molly to watch after like a besotted lover either.

There's only Caleb, now. He probably shouldn't be so pleased by the thought of that.

“You know…” Molly begins, and Caleb pauses, head tilting to the side, “I think I prefer this.”

“This being…?”

“Just us, no Fjord to judge us or Beau being Beau.” The blood hunter raises a sharp eyebrow and waves his hand casually to gesture towards Nott, Frumpkin, and Caleb himself, like a lord showing off his prized possessions to envious guests, a taunt and a boast all in one. It says, ‘Look here, look at what I have, what you will never have. This is mine.’ Maybe it should be demeaning, but Mollymauk has always come off like a creature that exists to be above the common man. He was born to rule. A leader and his followers.

A God and his disciples.

Caleb frowns.

He isn't sure where that thought came from.

“Treasure?”

The wizard blinks, clears away the stray line of thought, and smiles, warm and soft and more open than he'd usually permit. It feels like a special occasion, like something important has happened and he needs to celebrate, a rightness to his chest that his mind twists in loops to avoid looking at.

“Sorry. I'm just...not used to this. To someone other than Nott really...caring.” He shrugs his shoulders to alleviate the bundle of Other he doesn't recognize that twists itself uncomfortably in his spine, some sort of emotion like joy he can't figure out the origin of.

“Well, I suppose you'll just have to learn to live with it.” Molly smiles, his voice a smooth whisper, and Caleb let's himself sink into it, into that feeling that has to stay unnamed in the pit of his stomach and the center of his chest.

Just for tonight, he'll let himself have this.

~°~

At dawn Nott shakes him awake with a gentle hand and urges him up with the speed of a particularly slow turtle, clearly reluctant to get even slightly closer to the thick darkness not even the rising sun seems to be able to clear, and for an awful second, as he raises his hand to keep the light out of his eyes, shirt hanging limp and open, boots dangling in his free hand, he sees something prowl close to the treeline, shrouded but hulking, first on two feet, then on four, before meeting his eyes, and sinking backwards. A shiver makes its way up his spine, but Molly's protests upon waking is sufficient enough to chase some of that fear away. But only somewhat.

They still have whatever that thing is to deal with once they go in, after all.

“Hells, why'd we choose now to set in?” Molly whines, a strange sound that comes out weird with that foreign accent of his.

Nott snorts and licks the grease from her fingers produced by the particularly fat rabbit she must have caught at some point when the sun set in, though he can scarcely recall when he had last seen any natural wildlife so close to the trees. No rabbits, no deer, no squirrels, and most unsettling, no birds. Not hearing their song first thing in the morning is an undoubtedly bad sign.

“Sun is stronger when it's coming through the trees at this angle, and maybe whatever we're going for is nocturnal and just now falling asleep.” She suggests, a shrug working it's way through her system, but Molly barely seems to take it into account, his eyes roving from Caleb's messy bun to the pale, scarred chest on display, then going blank for a few seconds.

He isn't sure he manages to fight down a blush. It's not as if he's never been the center of those kinds of looks before, rare as it is. It's just the first time Molly has ever really been...open about any sort of interest. It is interest, right?

Gods, he can't remember this kind of thing being so hard before the fire.

“Ahem.” Nott coughs, looking so offended on her own behalf that his chest squeezes and he's laughing before he can stop himself, shoulders shaking through it. Yes, perhaps Molly had a point last night. Being with them, just himself, Molly, Nott, and Frumpkin, feels right. Maybe there's even room for Yasha down the line, he can't imagine her being pushed away if the three of them break off from the main group later on, but leaving might just be in the cards, now. They'll have to discuss it later, when the responsibility of a job isn't crushing the life out of them, but it feels good to know if things go to hell they'll have an alternative solution.

‘Assuming,’ he thinks dryly to himself, ‘we don't run into something truly awful in there and die horribly.’

It's not a comforting thought, he's never been very good at those, but it keeps up his good mood despite himself, the gloom from yesterday chased away by Nott's beaming smile at his joy and Molly's controlled but present grin.

“So what's the plan o'mighty leader?” Molly questions after grabbing a bite to eat, disgruntled either by the rough nature of living off of game meat or simply because he doesn't like rabbit.

“There isn't much of one. We know what to look for, but not how far we have to go in.” He admits, then frowns in thought, rumors of dragons and the roars heard echoing out of the valleys bouncing through his head. “We won't be going all the way, not least because of what abomination might make its home in the deepest parts of it. There have been...whispers of something in the mountain range over the way. I'd rather avoid it if at all possible.”

The goblin beside him takes a swig from her flask and gestures towards the mass of trees to their left, a clear grimace on her face as she says, “Great. Something even worse lays at the end of this. We weren't being offered anything for that, so if we see it, we run like hell!”

“Through a swamp?” Molly raises an eyebrow, his sarcasm all but dripping from his tone, claws all but carving into his food like a bear. It's kind of threatening, but at this point most abnormal things Molly does has an air of intimidation. Caleb's even beginning to find it a little bit endearing, the bastard.

Nott cheerfully throws a rabbit bone at him.

Children, the lot of them.

“Are the two of you done or do we need to do our hair and makeup before we go?”

Molly scoffs as he slings his own knapsack over his head to rest against his side, idly teething a rabbit bone just to stave off boredom and, presumably, anxiety. “My dearest, I hardly need preparation to look this good.”

It's annoying how right he is, but his ego is big enough as is, Caleb isn't stroking it.

“Well,” Nott starts, her hands on her hips and possessions already tucked away into her jacket, “I'm a goblin, so I guess that answers your question.”

“We know and we love you.”

Her grin is little more than a snarl when she answers with a small “thanks” towards Molly, who's long legs have already overtaken her with ease, and who clearly isn't letting her forget it either. Is this how Fjord always feels? No wonder he's so emotionally constipated.

Caleb sees the irony of that observation on his end, of course. He just doesn't care.

By the time they finally stop fucking around and reach the point of possibly no return, their voices have dropped and their playful attitude has taken a swift nose dive into the murky green water awaiting their clean clothes and delicate sensibilities ahead. From here, at the very edge of the wood, he can hear the soft rushing of water, but the shadows that stubbornly cling to even the smallest of spaces makes it impossible to locate the origin by eyesight alone. He can see only the upper half of the canopy above, where the darkness seems to be unable to reach and the rays of sunlight shine like stars through the leaves.

Below, more towards the forest floor, is a different story.

There is no path, no sign of prints, animal or otherwise. No deer trail like most woods have at least a few of, no signs of any sort of wildlife save for old, barely visible things like a crumbling birds nest, stiff bear fur caught on a low hanging branch, what should be...more, but isn't.

“So, this is normal. I don't know about you guys but when I think ‘swamp’, I think of crickets and bugs. Do you hear any of that?” Nott whispers while she slips her hand into Caleb's, then Molly's after some hesitation, as if the oppressive silence battering in at all sides has to be heeded.

She's right, he notes, lighting a glowing orb that barely seems to do anything at all. There aren't even any bugs. He doesn't feel incessant mosquitos, and even pests like flies haven't shown up yet.

“Something foul lurks in these waters. Something not meant to be on this plane.” Molly murmurs, and Caleb can barely catch the tone, the...irritation of it, like this is just an inconvenience. To a blood hunter, he supposes that's true, but the sheer lack of concern is unnerving.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?!”

Molly rolls his shoulders, then uses his free hand to sooth her hair flat against her head, claws scratching just so over her scalp. At first Caleb thinks she'll throw a fit, but eventually, she caves, and accepts this new form of comfort, head tilting to press into the offering. It's heartwarming to watch, and chases away a little of the discomfort pressing heavy into the small of his back, like a hand pushing him towards its predetermined goal.

“Calm down, little cat, I'm trained for this. It isn't the usual monsters of the swamp, it's…recent. It smells like steel and frost and death. It smells like war. And that is a very bad sign for this country.” The tiefling admits apologetically, but he hardly seems all that beat up about it. Caleb can't really blame him for his disregard for the empire.

The wizard sighs and starts off forward, careful to keep the glowing light angled down so he can at least watch to make sure none of them fall into the mouth of a snake den or, god forbid, any sort of water, from river to unusually deep puddle.

Branches thwack uncomfortably against him as he leads, but he can't hear a damn thing else anyway, so clearly they haven't yet stumbled upon the center of the next skirmish site, assuming anyone else was dumb enough to enter with such ill omens before them and get caught by this “scent of war”.

“Do you smell anything else there, mutt?” Nott asks, tugging Molly forward just to keep up with Caleb's hastened pace.

The blood hunter gives her a particularly pretentious sort of sniff, as if to expound upon his own pride, but nods reluctantly all the same.

“Cat. I smell cat. And healing magic, but not the usual kind. Tea too, but I thought I was imagining that. No blood, so whoever it is might be alive. Might be the firbolg you mentioned before we left, the one thought to be dead by now.”

Caleb hums in answer and keeps walking straight, blue eyes darting to a single light from afar, their pace rapidly gaining them the speed they require to close the distance. It's just a speck, but it calls his attention more than anything else might, a siren in a deadly storm, and even the shadows seem to hiss and dissipate the closer they get to what just might be a safe haven.

The scent of tea is what hits him first.

It's herbal and a little like sugar, all sweetness as if drizzled with honey, and it makes him yearn for the comfort of tavern blankets and hot baths.

True to his assumption, a firbolg rests idly by a sparking campfire, his fur a warm pale pink, his hair darker but no less lovely. His large hands hold a teacup steady, and his eyes are closed, even as his visible ear twitches towards them, an acknowledgement if nothing else. Caleb can't say he's particularly attracted to firbolg or their furred cousins, but in an idle sense, the man is...handsome, but in a different way from Fjord's dreamboat muscled way or Yasha's tall, dark and broody sort of aesthetic. He's far from delicate, but his calm countenance makes him feel like safety, a person you would willingly hug no matter how much you don't like physical contact.

“Hello there.” Molly says, stilted and wary, finally, when it becomes glaringly obvious that Caleb is too lost in his thoughts and Nott is a little bit dazed over whatever has struck her fancy this time. The human can only imagine what they must look like, rumbled clothes, stinking of fear and anticipation, clutching hands with each other like they'll lose their mind if they lose contact.

The firbolg takes his time lowering his cup and turning to look at them, but when he does, his lips quirk up into a friendly smile, content and happy even in the midst of an awful situation, all alone like he is. Not a care in the world.

“Oh, why hello, I would have made more tea if I'd known there'd be more guests, I'm so sorry. I'm Caduceus! Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We stan a hobo cat cleric who just hangs out in creepy cursed swamps drinking tea and waiting to pick up his kids like a soccer mom
> 
> Astaire's accent is Cajun Louisiana French btw. Where would he get that in this world? Idk just roll with it.
> 
> Caleb's idea of self care is being choked out and I'm starting to think it needs to be addressed.
> 
> I swear I didn't mean to write that "naughty" comment Molly has a mind of his own and it's beginning to scare me
> 
> Next chapter: no spoilers but look at that big ol Molly tag and prepare to die


	11. Los! Los! Los!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so this chapter is like super late but also 15k. IDK what happened. Don't kill me for the ending. I'm bad at angst so it just kind of exists :/

(-To the battlefield! The front lines! Then the edge of death! Show your commitment born from casting your life away!-)

The firbolgs name is Caduceus Clay, and he's really damn weird.

To be fair, Caleb can't really talk. He grew up in a cult and is a murderer, Nott is an alcoholic goblin with an addiction for thieving, and Molly is Molly, who's too odd to even name all of his uncomfortable habits. They aren't exactly the poster children of normalcy.

But there's “My awful life experiences are the reason I am this way” kind of weird, and then there's “I popped out of the womb this way” weird, and so far as Caleb can tell, it really isn't the former.

‘So all in all,’ He thinks with no small amount of amusement. ‘He fits right in.’

“I'm surprised, I've already seen someone else come through here. I didn't know this place was popular.” Caduceus muses, idly swirling a spoon around his cup, eyes closed.

Neither did they, unfortunately.

“Someone else?”

Caduceus nods at Molly's question and waves his hand to his right, deeper into the swamp, and further into the roiling darkness that presses against the firbolgs holy magic keeping it firmly locked out. They hadn't even known it was poisonous until they'd stepped into his space and found themselves nearly sick at the loss of it in their lungs and filling the spaces between their organs. Even Molly had looked queasy as black smoke swirled out of his mouth when he coughed. For Caleb, it had been an all too familiar situation. Ignoring that it was weird poisonous swamp magic and not smoke, anyway.

“Mm. Aasimar. A wild mane of hair, a very large sword, and strange makeup.” Caduceus looks thoughtful, then smiles, softly, “An incredibly intimidating woman to have met! I was very lucky indeed.”

Molly snorts into his tea.

“What are the chances of Yasha having business here?” Caleb wonders aloud, and Molly pauses, briefly, then rolls his shoulders, looking almost...amused, entirely inappropriate for the conversation he knows is coming, but it isn't as if he should have expected otherwise.

“Oh. Oh dear.”

“What? What do you mean by that?” Nott's voice rang out from beside Caduceus, her small form all but overshadowed by his own, which had seemed to strangely please her upon noticing.

“Well, she may or may not be hunting down hints of a situation similar to the mine.” Molly admits with a shrug, though Caleb doesn't miss the beating around the bush. It's clear the tiefling doesn't trust the firbolg with any sort of information that might be important just yet, but Caleb honestly can't bring himself to be suspicious, which is either a sign of character growth and maturity, or a very, very bad idea.

Nott, evidently, has no such qualms, as she opens her mouth and lets out a truly horrified, “The thing that smells like war is a shitting betrayer God?! Why do we keep finding these people?!”

Before Molly can launch into an obviously long winded rant, by the way something like indignation crosses his face, Caduceus nods, sharp, and strangely grim, despite the cheerful facade he keeps up. It fits wrong on his lips, like smugness on Yasha, or sorrow on Molly, and the light air they've managed to keep up snaps like a twig, weighed down by tension and acrid fear, spilling through their bubble and only making him feel worse. Admittedly, it doesn't take much for that to happen at this point. They're all so strung up and pulled tight, it would take only the smallest of taps to cause a panic.

“He is who I seek. The Mother of the Wilds spoke to me, across the wind and through the trees, clear as chimes.” He smiles, briefly, fondness breaching his tone as warm as the sunlight that has never touched Caleb. “He is Her enemy as much as fire, but his weapon is frost, and hatred for the bloom She brings, as cruel as winter.”

Molly hisses out a breath, and his lips pull back over sharp white fangs, as dangerous as his claws, a panther warning off a predator, even one he can not see. Is it foolish bravery, arrogance, or knowledge that what they face will bend to the power he holds, Caleb wonders. He knows what he hopes it is, but the situation is bleak.

“The Strife Emperor. He Who Heralds The Coming Of War. The very first stage of the toppling of an empire. And,” Molly pauses for a moment, his expression cold and lifeless. “The rise of something new.”

Something about the statement snags at Caleb's attention like a fish on a lure. It's significant somehow, to the questions and observations lurking almost unseen in his mind. A key to a door he just hasn't found yet.

Molly almost sounds excited for it, too.

The firbolg doesn't answer, and his smile has disappeared. He doesn't mention the way Nott sinks into his side in reflex, as if he might need the comfort just as much. A follower of the Wildmother might, he supposes. Were Tirich to have had any significant enemies in other celestials, perhaps he'd be having the same reaction. As it is, the time for him to fight for his God has long passed him by, and he did not win that war. He never even had a chance to.

Caleb will need time to think on this development, however, on if it is even worth tracking this...creature, now that they know what it is.

A sign of war. He doesn't even sound sentient. It sounds like a duty, a soldier primed for battle, doing what he must because nature dictates it so, though he isn't so naive to believe the Emperor won't enjoy the work. Betrayer Gods are evil not because Man dictates it, but by their very own doing. Still. He feels less like a monster, and more like an inevitability. Stopping him won't stop the war. Only the forewarning.

How will a war change his plans?

The Archmages and their students will be called upon. All who have magic and can be threatened will be conscripted if it gets bad enough. Undoubtedly, Heinrich will be pulled back in, and his prey will slip away as easily as a snake.

Someone else might even kill one of them, and the thought makes fury clench in his chest. They are his to crucify, after all. They will answer for their crimes, just as he will when his miserable life is over with at the end of this path.

And then he will rest at his God's side, where he has always belonged.

At least, that's the plan.

Rapidly it is beginning to spin out of control. He had not accounted for immortals. And why should he have? The Spider Queen let them go from her web, because her curiosity had been sated, perhaps. She is a spinster, a weavess, her plans long and thought out over decades of time. It was hardly a mercy, the act of letting them go, merely a ply for more entertainment, knowing they're more interesting alive.

But what use does War have for humans if they are not soldiers?

The answer is nothing.

If they are caught, if they are backed into a corner and fail to win this, they will die. No turning back once they've fully committed to this.

A part of him is scared, that small, terrified child part of him cowering in the back of his mind, clutching the hand of his relationship to Nott and now Molly like a lifeline. He can not handle more loss. To lose either of them to this decision will kill him, he is sure. He will just...fade away. A shell of himself until the very end.

But there is a far larger part of himself that has grown since the time of it only being himself and Nott. It wails endlessly inside of him like a sea storm, a raging oceanic goddess of fury battering her waves into her enemies, shrieking in the wind for revenge. It never, ever stops screaming, even when it dips into Tirich's rich voice, whispering comforts and empty words, reminders of his duty to his family, to his God.

‘Have I not given you my all, and died for it? Died for you? Will you let them walk after all that they have taken from you? Will you let them go unpunished?’ It whispers. It isn't real. He isn't delusional. Tirich does not speak in his head any longer.

But as the days pass, he finds it harder and harder not to listen.

And then, he wonders, what shall he do?

It's with a swoop in his stomach that he realizes he doesn't know. He's turning into something awful, slowly, as his rage and grief consumes him from the inside and goes unchecked, brief moments of respite in the form of Nott or Molly or even Jester his only rock to clutch onto while tugged at all sides by that god damned bloodlust.

He finds that, if he were to look into a mirror, he isn't so sure it would be Caleb Widogast staring back.

“We-I have to keep going. No matter how dangerous, the information this will give us is crucial to the job we've taken on. But you two don’t have to follow me.” Caleb cuts in, hasn't even been paying attention to whatever conversation might have been playing out after the revelation. He finds that he can't tell how much time has passed at all, and doesn't quite care to know either. Molly is still a comforting presence beside him, and Nott is still safely tucked against the tall clerics side, so overshadowed she would be invisible if he did not know what to look for.

Still the tiefling looks hesitant, undoubtedly due to his own experiences. The wizard can't even find it in himself to get annoyed if he decides to pass on this. He knows how crazy it is, what he's asking of them.

He just prays to Tirich that he isn't making a mistake.

But Mollymauk slowly relaxes, then let's himself lean against Caleb, tail curling warmly around his arm with a gentle squeeze. He looks tired, strangely, looks as if he has weltschmerz, world pain. The weight of every decision they're about to make descending upon his shoulders. It makes him feel guilty, to push and prod those he cares for into place like chess pieces all for his plan, but there is nothing else for him anymore. No purpose, no use, no desire for some grand life plan. Just vengeance.

Without it, who is he?

“You know already, where you go, I’ll follow! We’re in this together, Caleb.” Nott shakes her head as she says it and crawls closer to the fire, small form soaking in as much heat as possible, expression twisted up into a grimace at his hesitation. He knows it's unfair of him to drag her along, but she is a grown woman capable of making her own decisions these days, and will not accept his coddling any longer, not like this. It makes his chest warm with fondness, and his gut tighten with fear.

He dips his head in acknowledgement all the same.

At the end of the day, their decisions are their own.

As are the consequences.

Across from them, situated just behind Nott, Caduceus hums softly into his cup, ear twitching as if listening for something they can't hear. Perhaps he is, if the Wildmother speaks to him. Caleb isn't entirely sure how comfortable he is with direct divine interference of that end. The Traveler hasn't tried to convert him, but the big name Gods are a little...different, in temperament.

“I'm here for the Emperor, too, so I'd be happy to help everyone. You'll need it.” He nods, as if it's just the easiest decision in the world to make, to team up with three highly suspicious people, two of which are races commonly considered evil, or at least untrustworthy.

Caleb finds himself inexplicably baffled. He'd have thought himself immune, after Mollymauk. Apparently not.

“You'll help us, just like that?” Nott asks, almost hopeful, and Caduceus gives her a warm smile that she tentatively returns, not even flinching at the sight of her razor sharp teeth.

“To be perfectly honest, I didn't expect to make it out of this place alive, so it's for my benefit too. We'll all still probably die horribly, but I'm sure the animals in the swamp won't let us go to waste.” The cleric chimes, cheerful even in the face of his own mortality. He supposes that sort of attitude is common if not wise among those who worship Nature herself. All things born of this world die and sink into the earth eventually. It's merely a matter of acceptance on her followers part, a necessary step for them. Tirich had different ideals, admittedly, as one might when faced with eternity.

Still, it's admirable, that attitude.

“And that doesn't scare you?” Molly asks, head tilting, but Caleb can tell it's a calculated move, like he has to think about how to move his body to properly pull the strings of the people around him.

The thought has always unsettled him in a way he can't explain, and even now it digs at him in the back of his head like a parasite he can't squash.

Caduceus shakes his head, one furred hand coming to rest idly on his wooden earring, gaze hazy, lost in a memory somewhere they can't follow as he stares into the crackling fire.

“Everybody will pass under our fair Lady's judgement. It's merely a matter of waiting. Who am I to say no to Lady Death if she so decides it's my time?”

Molly frowns, though, amusement sliding off his face like a well worn mask. Clearly, he isn't used to such a lack of fear at death, which makes Caleb wonder. The tiefling is nothing more than a man, but a man who carries himself as if not even Death herself might touch him. Does he fear it, though, in the dark of night, wondering when it might finally take him?

“Such a strange attitude from a mortal. You are no doubt aware of what awaits you at your end, no? Your Lady's afterlife is but an endless cycle of rebirth, new life after new life, and you will never remember it. Does that not scare you?”

But Caduceus, though clearly curious about Molly's knowledge, merely shrugs, utterly at peace.

“The world is the way it is and no protest from me will change it. Maybe we'll die in here, or maybe we'll win and go back home with a new story. Either way, I know something monumental is going to happen, very soon, and I have a feeling none of us shall avoid it when it does. Does that scare you?”

Mollymauk doesn't answer.

~°~

Noises are to be expected in a swamp, more so for one taken over at every corner by a Betrayer God, but the gentle glowing wisps of blue light far off between the trees, unnaturally bright in the thick blanket of darkness are not.

Caleb knows they're will'o'wisps, malevolent spirits of those who died haunting the roads to tempt passing travelers to their own doom, but he is also aware of the fact that so many, enough to where there's all but a hive of them, is not normal.

So many dead, then, so many pulled into the water only to never resurface. He wonders at the ground they tread, how many are buried underneath, how many lost children huddled underneath bushes for comfort only to die from hunger, soldiers struck down and left to decay in the heat of the sun, women and men of all races pulled away from the safety of their camps and into the jaws of the forked tongue hags that hide beneath the muddy waters. Swamps are always a breeding ground for dark magic, from the voodoo women of the wilds with their refusal to aid those stupid enough to trespass, to the foolish mages hoping to harness necromancy like it's a simple fireball spell and not the complete defiling of the Raven Queen's realm.

How many bodies lay just beneath their feet? It must be in the hundreds, if not thousands. There's a reason the place is warned of, a reason so many parents tell their children awful stories even at too young an age to understand just to keep them away.

Really, Caleb considers, it's no wonder an entity of war would travel through such tough terrain.

There must be an army slumbering just beneath them.

“Caduceus?” He asks, because the thought makes his skin crawl, and it's not from the bugs.

“Yes?” The firbolg glances back from the front of the line, easily peering over Molly's head, much to the tieflings brief annoyance, and locks eyes with the wizard.

“How much protection is your goddess lending us, exactly?”

Caduceus smiles, gently, just a slight show of teeth, enough for it to be genuine, and hefts Nott further up his back from where she clings, after their revelation that she will sink too far into the water for any of their comfort. She doesn't complain, surprisingly, so the sight merely reassures him of her safety, and of their trust in the strange but welcome cleric.

“Enough.” He affirms, and Caleb doesn't bother to ask if she can keep the dead from rising. There's a fine line between Death and Nature. One might argue the body belongs to Nature, and the soul belongs to Death, after all, and the thought is both reassuring, and all too terrifying to consider. He grew up on the belief that those that follow Tirich belong entirely to him through their devotion. He isn't so sure of a reality where his body is left to the whims of a different god. It feels almost like betrayal, and takes far too much away from the comfort in his own inevitable demise.

Far off into the trees, the wisps beckon forth with calls like bells tied around the necks of cats, bobbing and weaving between branches, but never warm and inviting. To Caleb, they are as cold as the corpses they belong to.

He notes with interest, however, that they lead in only one direction. It's away from the call Caduceus feels towards their true target, which implies either something worse, or something just as bad leads off to the west. A part of him wants to know what awaits them at the end of that trail, what shall happen if he takes those few steps forward and let's go of Molly's clenched hand for just a single moment of time. Undoubtedly, the magic will swallow his safety up whole, and leave him lost and confused, and utterly alone.

Carefully, he slots their fingers together and avoids looking at the ghostly lights directly, pressing evermore forward instead.

He won't be tempted to his death so soon. Not like this, anyway.

“Might I ask, Caduceus, why are you out here? With more detail than what you previously gave us, now that we're allies, of course.” The tiefling ahead of him asks, politely curious, likely attempting to pass the time and to ease their anxieties with conversation. It's clearly appreciated, from the way Caduceus brightens from his slouch and Nott let's her head peek over the man's shoulder instead of keeping it buried against his back.

“Oh, well, I run a graveyard for my family, or, I did? Not anymore, being here and all. A distant relative of mine and her family took over for me when we got the Call, the whisper that I mentioned. It was for me, so it was I who had to go, and no one else. It's considered an honor, to hear the Call, and to be the one to answer it.” His smile is evident in his voice, his love for his patron shining through his tone. It makes Caleb's natural paranoia soften, just a smidge. He can relate all too easily, after all.

Nott hoists herself up further onto Caduceus’ shoulders and stares back into the roiling darkness carefully, ears perked in case of trouble, but talons holding loosely to the firbolgs strange armor. He isn't so sure it's a comfortable position for her, but she's quite clearly taken by the cleric.

Or perhaps she just likes to feel tall.

“A graveyard? That sort of job often goes to a priest of the Raven Queen. Is your business catered to your worship instead?” Molly's question is fair, and suitably worried. The Empire cracks down hard on unsanctioned godly worship, true. Caleb would know first hand, after all, what happens to those that are caught.

“Hm, no, not really. Some of the villagers nearby might know? But no one would say anything. We keep to ourselves and they stick by us for the work we do, I think.”

Molly shakes his head, then, unseen by the firbolg, but his soft utterance is clearly heard.

“It only takes one bad apple to spoil the bunch.”

And Caleb can't say that isn't fair either.

“Uh, guys?” Nott says, voice lowered to a hiss, and the line abruptly pauses, so fast that Caleb smacks into Molly's unmovable body and has to clutch at his (ridiculously) firm arm to stay steady on his feet. Ahead of them Nott grips Caduceus’ hair without his complaint and locks eyes with something unseen.

“What's the problem, liebling?” He wonders, but his question isn't answered by her.

From the darkness, a branch snaps, and where once there was subdued movement, now the entire group stops, as still as wary deer.

Another crack, and Molly's head lifts, just the slightest, taking a deep breath, scenting the air like a predator.

“What is it?” He asks, his voice low, body leaning easily against the blood hunter and mouth softly caressing his sharp ear.

Molly huffs, the noise seeming to stir the creature slowly attempting to flank them, and shakes his head, annoyance flashing across his face.

“Lycanthrope.”

“A fucking what?!” Nott hisses back, panic setting in, but Molly only rolls his shoulders and turns on his heel, boots slinging up mud from where they've sunk into the wet ground.

“A wolfman. A mangy dog.”

It's a taunt, Caleb thinks, just before the beast flies out of the safety of the trees and is met with Molly's blade, glass turned razor sharp, cutting through the creatures stomach in a swift and calculated move that he can only barely keep track of.

The werewolf howls from the pain, blood spilling across the sunken grass and landing heavily on all fours to the other side of them, canine face pulled into a snarl, human eyes completely feral. He wants to feel sympathetic, has heard the stories of the unfortunate Moon Curse, the madness that overtakes nearly everything save for the lucky few who are strong enough to temper it, but he can only muster up a detached sort of pity, like looking at an animal carcass shoved off the side of a path. It isn't a man any longer, but a ravenous beast with only thought for baser instincts. Right now that instinct is food, is to hunt, and he'll be damned if he let's it kill those he cares about.

Caleb calls not upon his fire, untameable as it may be, to spare the wood, nor on his lightning, because of the water they stand in, but the power of frost, cold and awful and unfamiliar even as he clenches it tight in his chest and feels it lazily glide it's way up his chest and under his clothes in elaborate patterns he can't see nor appreciate.

The ground beneath the creature cracks open a split second before the beast can launch itself at the closest target, and spires of ice, just as biting as Molly's blades thrust upwards, pinning it in place like nails through it's limbs.

Through his adrenaline, he can hear the sound of Molly taking the fight to a new threat, and even over the pounding drum of his heart in his ears he can tell it takes little effort for him to drive the things away from them.

The cornered creature before him doesn't back down, doesn't surrender like any other sentient being might in the face of defeat, snarling, struggling and spitting, and with a blank face and persistent feeling of Nothing, Caleb twists the spires until the savage monster is torn apart from the inside.

He wonders, idly, as he turns and observes Nott take out a smaller wolf with a bolt through the eye from her newfound favorite perch, if it is wrong to feel this slick satisfaction from ending the life of the werewolf. Surely it must be. It was human, once. Perhaps it had a family, a wife or husband, children, a mother, a father?

But it just feels like a job.

Molly howls right along with the creatures as they fight their way to get at him, frenzied by the death of their pack, and it's with a distant jolt that he realizes there's no alpha amongst them.

There's always an alpha.

He feels the bite of claws ripping into his shoulder before he registers the weight of a fully grown human man landing atop him, shoving him into the watery ground so hard his vision swims and the only thing that saves his head from lasting damage is the corpse of the first attacker he lands on.

The pain almost immediately stops being dulled by the adrenaline and spreads from shoulder to neck to chest, a searing agony that forces a scream out of his throat. It feels like a heated blade clumsily driven into his flesh, like the torture inflicted by Nott's hands upon that dead Empire girl what feels like months ago. Beyond the pulsing need to get away fleerunpanic, is the manic acknowledgement that, at the very least, it wasn't a bite, and won't be one either. The alpha will know to avoid it if he wants to avoid a new pack member. No, he will be torn apart by claws from a fury he can even understand, to a degree.

The rage of a grieving family member is a powerful tool.

But death does not come, only the touch of Other, of old magic, of dead gods and sinking dread and Fear, of which only one being has ever made him experience, curling warm across his wound.

The pain dulls to a mere insect bite, the snarling behind him quiets for one glorious moment, and his eyes, just barely able to see beyond the matted, stinking fur moves frantically to the sky, to watch in silent, wondering awe as it seems to shift right before him, the only sign any mortal might ever be able to see to know that what they have always perceived as open empty space is actually Alive, in the same way Lady Death is Alive. The rich blue blinks, almost, and stares down upon his form in the idle consideration of an immortal, and just that single glimpse makes his head ache something awful, but he can't look away.

Tirich, or what is the whole of Tirich, come to life, if only a little. Not awake, not yet, but stirring, a great leviathan roused from it's slumber by the grace of a dying mortal, a spoiled but beloved pet. Just a simple ripple across reality, like gentle water lapping at ones fingers disturbing the surface. Larger than life.

It's over before it truly begins.

And then time seems to resume, air rushing into his lungs, the screams of battle popping through his hearing uncomfortably, and there is Molly, like a gift from the God he has finally laid eyes on once more come to shelter him in that bubble of lust and fond intimacy, something like terror layered clumsily by bloodlust etched across his features.

His movements are quicker than should be possible, his body a blur, and the monster panting down his neck is dead before it can further cause harm, disgusting claws sliding out of the wound in an undoubtedly painful way he can't even feel. The lycanthropes blood spills heavy and cloying across his back, trickling down his cheek and curving last second away from his gasping mouth, as if that too is a mercy from the sky he has yet to stop searching.

He barely registers the way the body slides off him only to be replaced by a panicked Molly, and in another time, he'd appreciate the attention, the loving care, but the sky…

Gods, but he had forgotten how beautiful Tirich is.

“Caleb?”

Molly's voice is a cracked, pathetic whisper, scared in a way he isn't sure should be possible, and the tiefling drags his injured body closer, further from the tainted water, until his head rests carefully on tightly pressed knees, body shivering from the chill that seeps through the usually sweltering atmosphere.

He wants to keep looking, to keep searching for something, anything, but he knows better, and comforts himself with replay after replay of the shuddering moment, immortalized in his greedy mind.

Then, and only then, does he pull his gaze from the sky, from the trees that have parted to make way for a single, expansive glimpse at what he has prayed for for years now, and takes in Molly's soft, open expression.

The fear has ebbed, and now he just looks grateful, as if he too has Seen, but surely not, for his eyes do not stray upwards, nor to the other two slowly making their way towards them.

His eyes are only for Caleb, and it feels like a selfish but wondrous victory.

Carefully, Molly leans down until their faces nearly touch, forcing eye contact he craves for once in his life, and he can't help but wish the position was different, that his head wasn't in Molly's lap but his body was underneath the man before him, so that they may share the air between their lips, wants to feel every warm exhale and press of skin against his own, be it in the form of slick sweat sticking them together underneath thin sheets and the push and pull of hips, or the soft, gentle sweetness of something innocent but no less important, and he thinks ‘Oh’, as he realizes that perhaps it is not just arousal that fuels his desires any longer.

“You scared me.” Molly accuses with a gentle laugh that winds around his ears like a purr. It is happy but hides away his fear, shying away from the truth like a timid animal.

And Caleb smiles, that charismatic one usually lost to the fire, freed by the appearance of a thought to be long gone God, the one that pulls up his top lip to show off teeth and makes him look as besotted as he truly is, and says, “I suppose you'll just have to tie me to you to avoid it happening again.”

By the look of consideration on Molly's face, he thinks he might just get exactly what he's jokingly asked for, and something excited licks up his spine at the thought.

“Gods, that was something! Was that your magic?” Caduceus asks, finally, cutting obliviously through the strange tension that lingers between the two. Caleb can't say he's entirely grateful for it, but now is hardly the time to go blurting out his newfound maybe feelings. Or ever, really, if he has anything to say about it.

“Yes.” He says, only with a touch of hesitation. Perhaps revealing his own loyalties is not the best choice now, either, despite the clear amused disbelief on Molly's face. Why, exactly, he doesn't believe him, remains to be seen. Now isn't the time to reveal Tirich's scrutiny. Nott, he is sure, already knows. He is capable of much, but not something of such caliber as to bend the shapes of hundreds of year old trees that have grown fat on the sustenance of the dead.

“Such powerful magic you are capable of, calling forth a Divine.”

Everyone pauses, aside from Caduceus himself, who merely looks nonplussed.

‘Well,’ he thinks wryly, ‘at least I don't have to worry about a future confrontation.’

“You are so sure of such. You're aware of this God?” Molly questions, but it is a thinly veiled accusation, as if saying yes might wind up with him being maimed and left for dead in some dark corner of the swamp no one will ever think to search through, not that many would bother searching through the cursed wood in the first place.

Caduceus has the gall to laugh, visible ear twitching with amusement at the admittedly strange question.

“Of course I am! My family finds it's best to learn to respect all of the Old Ones, not just the newer ones humans have taken to starting wars over. That's how we got the Betrayer Gods in the first place, or so my Nan always used to say.” The cleric pauses, for a long moment, as if searching for the right way to phrase his answer. “There's something to those stories of the Forgotten Ones who've been shoved aside for things like Order and, hm, smithing, even. The Ocean with her great waves and terrible fury, screaming her rage at all who trespass, and the First Of Their Kind, ancient dead gods you can feel in the mountain air. It's just surprising that you'd catch the attention of something as timeless as, well, space. There's too many names to go along with something like that.”

It's the respect that lowers the rest of Caleb's reservations, the awe, the reverence. Sometimes it's easy to forget that so many of Tirich's original kin has been lost to the ages of Man, smothered by the new generation of Divinity that so many choose to regard as eternal, when in the eyes of something like the primordials, they must be like children playing as grown ups. He wonders at the grief he never bore witness to, the strength Tirich refused to drop. How much had he not seen, or simply chosen to turn a blind eye to? It makes him feel terribly guilty, all of a sudden.

“I was born into his...service. It's a family thing, or was, as it is.” He admits, softly, as Molly moves to clean his wound so Caduceus can heal it properly, drawing the mud and who knows what else from the blood and surrounding skin. It stings, expectedly, but the tingle of magic is pleasant enough to take the edge off.

Caduceus looks almost pleased, lips curling at the edges in a friendly expression. Perhaps it has been awhile since he has met someone similar, aside from family. Or maybe he's always this weird.

“An honor, then, that he watches us at this time.”

Caleb doesn't mention that he doubts there's anyone left to watch that isn't himself. It won't make him feel better.

“You never did mention you had a God in your pocket.” Molly murmurs, something amused leaking through his tone, a joke only he seems to be in on, and Caleb shrugs, even as Caduceus tsks at him for moving when his skin is stitching back together.

“I wasn't necessarily aware he was even watching, considering how we parted, and the complete lack of response afterwards.” He replies, voice cracking, briefly.

Molly doesn't mention it, or reply at all. Something unreadable crosses across his face, but he catches Nott watching the tiefling closely, thoughtful, or maybe wary. He can't quite tell. It feels important, important enough to ask, but it'll have to wait like so much else, until they can be safely alone without prying ears or the threat of further attacks upon them. The werewolves were an unfortunate surprise, but he can see now why they attacked so recklessly.

Their skin stretches across sharp, angular bones, teeth dirty but not with blood, claws dull, and their ranks are far too small for a healthy pack. Either the Emperor has been picking them off (unlikely), or the unnatural presence has decimated the natural food chain and driven them into starvation, death, maybe even cannibalism as a last resort for a dying few. Abruptly, he feels satisfaction and pity mingle in his chest. They didn't deserve this, but their deaths are all but a mercy. They wouldn't have left the territory they've claimed for themselves, would have stayed until they were too weak to defend it and until they had to eat their own family just to survive a day longer off of their needed diet.

It's awful, what the presence of the Divines can do, even the lawful ones. Death and destruction always follow, it seems, even if not at the hands of the God itself.

His thoughts must be obvious, painted across his face, as Caduceus nods, a single brief movement missed if not fast enough to see, perhaps to himself or to comfort Caleb, and from where he kneels just in the wizards vision, he lays a free hand not holding his staff against the ground.

Green lights, muted and rich, follow along the roots of the maple trees, deep and connected underground, thriving off of the dead for decades, all the way to the base of the trees they belong to. Then, all at once, the roots rise from their nest of graves and seem to drag the bodies underneath the ground itself like trapping spiders, earth digging itself up just to smooth over the mess left behind, and it's as if there had been no attack at all. Perhaps now the poor creatures will rest, and serve a purpose at the same time.

“Thank you.” He says, simply, and Caduceus smiles, a little sadly, despite the inherent warmth of the gesture. There was nothing natural about any of this, the attack, the causality, nor the death, in the end. Only needless carnage for the sake of it, and a fight for survival that shouldn't have been needed in the first place.

Perhaps Caduceus’ reasons are not so casual after all.

“I'm just doing my job.”

~°~

The path back is obvious only at the grace and foresight of whatever small part of Tirich his near death had awoken, and they set off into the safety it provides, as minimal as it might be, quickly, pace hurried. One such encounter means there are surely other creatures watching, and if not watching, then actively hunting them instead, and the thought makes his skin crawl like hundreds of centipede legs tracking over his body. He's always hated being seen as prey, but such things must be common when dealing with Ancients, be it Fae, Gods or any other sort of long living being. Really, he's just thankful there aren't any fucking Fae around, he can only imagine such a nightmare scenario. They'd surely want to collect Molly for his looks like some sort of pet, and the rest of them would be reduced to amusing sideshows for their race or powers. Now all they must do is avoid the dragons nest he has little doubt exists somewhere to the north.

Something about the swamp begins to change the further they walk, their system of holding hands once more established with Nott playing lookout, but he can't quite put his finger on what until it's an obvious change. The trees just move a little strange in the almost choking, humid wind, like being weighed down by snow, the ground begins to crunch and freeze despite the wet heat that has him pulling his torn coat off and throwing it into his knapsack. He's sure he can hear feminine whispers at the very edge of his hearing, but no matter how loud he talks he can still hear it at the same volume. He isn't entirely sure he's at the point of auditory hallucinations, either, and it makes his muscles all the more tense.

He could live a thousand more years and never again wish to visit this hellscape. It's disgustingly hot like it has its own damn weather separate from the rest of the world, and though the darkness from before has retreated to a point that they can at least see a few feet ahead, it still hisses at them hungrily, but unable to stray past Tirich's regard.

And that's something, isn't it?

Tirich, returned to him, to an extent anyway. No longer warm and present at his side with gentle touches and a song for any occasion, and the ache his absence leaves is all the more apparent now that he can see for himself that he's not entirely alone. He should be grateful, and a large part of him is, but he has to wonder where his God was all those years of damning fucking silence, the quiet in his head loud in a way he had never before experienced. He was born into it, had grown with the mark of his Lord until everything was taken.

Why return now? Why let him suffer but refuse him his own death?

There are so many questions, but never any answers, and he supposes, at this point, such a thing from Tirich should no longer be a surprise. How many times has he prayed into the darkness for the slightest of signs, and been given absolutely nothing?

“Caleb?”

He doesn't realize he's stopped walking until Molly's hands cup his face and smooth over his hair, dragging his nails lightly over his scalp and sending warm tingles of pleasure up his spine. The world seems to right itself, and the building anguish blocks the air into his lungs for one awful moment where he can't hear anything over the sound of his own resentment. It feels like abandonment of the highest order, of a betrayal he has no right to voice. Who is he to scream and cry at a God he hasn't spoken to for half his life, anyway?

He finds that, a part of himself is furious he was denied another death, and it makes him wonder what kind of person that makes him, to yearn to leave behind those he cares for. It feels selfish, but he wants the option anyway. Will Tirich stay his hand, and every other hand that might strike him down? It's a thought that sends dread unspoiling in his stomach like a ball of yarn.

“Where are you at in that beautiful head of yours, my dearest?”

“Nowhere pleasant, Mister Mollymauk.” He replies with a tired smile, slowly coming back to himself, aware once more of the heat and the ache of straining muscles from tension. He can see a puzzled Caduceus speaking quietly to Nott over the tieflings shoulder, but Molly moves to take back his gaze when it strays anywhere else. It's oddly endearing, if not a tad bit unsettling.

“Then why don't you join us once more, hm?”

Caleb snorts, but let's himself lean into his palm with only minimal hesitance. He wishes he had to energy to wonder what he's getting himself into by accepting more and more attention from the man he's grown...something for. Something far from platonic. In hindsight, trying to justify the intimacy of the bath was a little stupid. Maybe it's platonic to Molly, but how he'd thought himself capable of keeping it that way is anyone's damn guess.

“We don't have time for this.” The wizard states, quietly, but Molly only grins and tugs him close by the collar of his shirt, uncaring about the dried blood that scrapes off underneath his touch and sticks to his claws.

“Then we'll make time. For you, my dear, I'd march right back out of here if you asked, so if you need some time to breathe, take it.”

It's an offer almost too good to pass up, but he is well aware of Molly's blithe devil-may-care care attitude when it comes to prioritizing him at this point in their friendship. He isn't so sure Molly would ever return to the task at hand if he asked for a moment of peace.

“I...ja, well, if you won't be the responsible one, I'll just have to take up the mantle.” He sighs in mock exasperation, and is rewarded with a rich laugh that rumbles against him like a big cats purr where they've pressed themselves together.

“I think you'll find I'm plenty responsible. I just don't care much for the Empire. Or this swamp, for that matter.” Molly's expression is one of deep disdain, and he can't help but boldly press their cheeks together in a strange sort of nuzzle, not that the blood hunter complains, taking it in with the grace of someone who's been doing such a thing for years.

“Are you two done?” They're interrupted with exaggerated annoyance by Nott, and with a quick glance he sees that their conversation has reached its conclusion. Caduceus only looks pleased, if still bemused.

Caleb contemplates launching Nott into the swamp water by her feet, briefly, but ultimately peels himself off the tiefling and brushes past, mindful of the slushy, freezing muddy path they've already ruined just by walking through a single time. It's strange that there are no other tracks, and he has to wonder, as he walks and takes up the line once more, just where the animals have actually fled to. Certainly not the way they came in, and the mountains are hardly going to welcome them with warm arms. It's cold up there, far too cold for forest dwelling animals, and the beasts of the swamp would likely tear each other apart in their quest to flee from an invading threat. Some, like the wolves, have undoubtedly refused to leave at all. Perhaps they've simply burrowed and refused to come out, he reasons, but something about it feels...unlikely.

Perhaps it's that fabled sixth sense of being able to tell when something living and breathing is close to you, or maybe it's a subconscious observation he's noted while walking, but it's a bone deep acceptance that anything as simple as a squirrel or raccoon is not anywhere near by. Even the birds are gone, save for the black vultures he sees circling overhead from the little patch of safety they've carved with eldrich magic. Their presence is a comfort he can actually afford, for once, and he laments that he can not sit amongst their ranks and feed them as he once did as a child on particularly slow days. Tirich's slice of wood had housed many, but they are not so common in fields, away from trees and nests.

“How's the shoulder doing?” Caduceus calls back, about five minutes after he had forced a stand still. They've rearranged themselves, with Caduceus still leading, Caleb acting as a buffer and Molly trailing close behind with a gentle tug of his hand every few moments. Nott has yet to bother getting off the firbolgs firm shoulders with the excuse of playing lookout but he knows she's a dirty liar in that regard. If Molly doesn't hear it, she isn't going to see it, anyway.

The wizard falls into step with the cleric and glances around at their icy surroundings, noting the thin sheet of snow that layers the tops of branches but never seems to reach the ground. The air is hot, but it never melts, and he has to wonder if the Emperor is doing it on purpose, keeping it cool for, whatever, aesthetic purposes, maybe. It seems an impractical use of power, in any case. If it's meant as a show of power, then even Tirich's little party trick with the trees was more impressive, really.

“It's fine, yes, thanks to you.”

Caduceus hums softly and brings his staff to his chest, stopping briefly to lean against it and twist around to look at what little they can see through the darkness and freed space. The vegetation, though abundant, is frozen, and looks almost sickly, in a way, as if the very life in the roots has been sucked out.

“It wasn't just me, but I digress. Does something else seem wrong to you about this?”

It's not an all around out of place question, but there aren't exactly many answers to it. Yes, of course, being the only correct one. A lot is wrong about it, clearly.

“You'll have to elaborate.” Molly sighs, and uses their stop as an excuse to drape himself over Caleb's back like some sort of cat. Their height difference is minimal, but the tiefling uses those damn heels of his to his advantage, and the feeling of being tucked under the man's chin becomes an immediate distraction. It feels...safe, and secure, and a host of other things more appropriate for inside a private room instead of a possibly cursed swamp. Also, he's getting tired of the knowing looks from Nott and now Caduceus very quickly.

It's not as if Caleb will push him off, though, so the jokes on him, he supposes.

“Just that, we've been walking for awhile, and we've seen no animals, the plants are all dead or dormant like the trees, and the last group of monsters we faced were only in the edge of the swamp, where everything is empty of life but normal. I can't feel the lives of the animals, either. It's as if they've all just...died.” He pauses, and the upset on his face is enough to make Caleb reach out and place a hand on his arm, offering what little comfort he can. He knows that sort of disquiet, after all.

He can feel Molly's slow, steady intake of breath against his back when the man says, “I have...a theory. But you aren't going to like it. I certainly don't.” And he can all but hear the grimace behind the words above him. Carefully, he leans into the embrace, and Molly's arms tighten around his vulnerable stomach in gratitude.

“Alright, I'm prepared. How bad is it?” Nott questions, hands gripping tightly at the available cloth underneath the strange plating covering Caduceus’ armor. He wonders how she doesn't slip off, with nothing to grab hold of without fearing some sort of tear in fabric.

“Necromancy and blood magic are similar. Both require sacrifice for the powerful spells, after all, and always deal in bodies. The key difference in necromancy is that those spells require souls and life force, not blood. With blood magic, you can take a whole group of people, some of their blood from each, and it'll work. You can't do that with souls. It will always kill the body, no matter what. We...haven't seen any animals, and even the plants are dead or dying, like life has been siphoned or an attempt at it has happened. Those werewolves were on the brink of dying out, but only from starvation, and they hadn't moved to the center of the swamp where it's so...dead.”

Caleb feels a little sick to his stomach, and has the abrupt urge to laugh at the stream of thoughts he'd had earlier.

“This is a mass grave. There are, gods, hundreds of corpses, there must be. Those will’o'wisps are proof of that. If he's been sacrificing whatever he can get his hands on to raise the dead…”

Molly tenses, behind him, and the embrace becomes less like something loose and more like a shelter, or even a gilded cage, as if the other might shelter him from the horror of such a plan. ‘It won't work’, he wants to say, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. No one speaks for a long moment as it settles.

Is there even time to stop such a thing? Tirich only knows how long he has been gathering soldiers. And what for, anyway? Why would a messenger need an army? Does the size of the force represent how large the war will be?

Gods, there's a thought to have nightmares about.

“You lot really should have brought more people.” Caduceus smiles, grimly, then sharply inhales.

“You said your friend Yasha was here earlier.”

The tiefling lets out a shuddering breath that ghosts across his hair uncomfortably, but doesn't suddenly rush off into the darkness like one might usually do at such news. “I’d know it if she were dead. I'd feel it, and the Stormlord would not take kindly to such a transgression. Gods are terribly possessive of their Champions. If she died, we would know it, as would half the Empire.”

It's a fair point. He isn't so sure about the first bit, but he knows the type of attitude a Divine gets when it comes to their Chosen. Another deity killing one would be a personal assault, and he isn't so sure the Emperor would be stupid enough to gain the ire of the actual God of storms.

“But she's still in danger.” Nott points out, reluctantly, and that much is true. There must be other horrors in the further they go, something attracted to the magic or the undead that weren't picked off by the sacrifice. He isn't so sure about picking a fight with some thousand year old vampire nesting out of the way. They'd undoubtedly lose, for one, and he has no interest in immortality at the price of his sanity. There's only a few strains of vampirism that aren't a double edged sword, and you won't find it in the middle of nowhere like this.

Ghouls are just foul, but, far more common. If anything, it'll be a miracle if they run into none of their kind, subspecies or the rest.

“We should try to locate her, but I have a feeling she'll be wherever the Emperor is.”

The blood hunter nods, gently, chin pressing down, then pulls away to take up the lead, which is...something.

Molly shouldn't have the pull to the Emperor, and almost certainly doesn't have one to Yasha.

Caleb feels something itch just under the surface of his thoughts, edging ever closer to the surface. A key puzzle piece. A realization.

Soon it will break free, and Hell will follow.

~°~

He never notices the sun changing positions until their shadows have moved before his eyes, and the fatigue from walking has finally set in. Realistically, they should have arrived by now. The swamp isn't so large as to require an entire day's worth of a steady pace of walking to reach just the middle of the damn place, but it feels as if they've made no progress at all and it's begun to get colder, nevermind the lack of meals. They've sipped water, making sure to ration, but this trip isn't prepared for days of stays. Merely three days, two with another mouth to feed. Water is a problem but Caduceus seems not to be worried over that bit, so he must have something up his sleeve. Food, though…

They can't hunt what's dead and missing, nor are the plants alive anymore. He hasn't even spotted a berry bush, but then he hasn't been looking very hard for such things as Caduceus might have been.

It's a mutual decision split amongst all of them to set up camp on the middle of the path instead of moving off to find somewhere more cushioned. They all have a feeling that if they lose sight of the tentative pathway, Tirich will not be putting them back on track again. Either he has no interest in helping further or he can't interfere directly without a link Caleb isn't in the position to provide without a proper shrine, and he has a feeling he won't be seeing one of those again unless made by his own hands.

First watch is Molly, as usual, but Caleb doesn't feel like sitting up and talking again, flirting and teasing out the feelings he can barely even look at without feeling himself slip into some awkward, fumbling mess. Instead, he drags his bedroll beside the silent tiefling and lays down, head resting easily on the warm thigh Mollymauk does not hesitate to extend to him, fingers twining through his hair seconds later. It's not normal for them to act as if they've known each other for years, his thoughts whisper, and the same slick resistance to the questions that causes does not stop them this time.

He still says nothing, even as the suspicion grows. Later is his excuse, but it is a weak one, and he knows it.

It's nice to be held like this by someone he cares for, if only for a bit, and despite the desperate pressing of secrets that weigh them both down every time they get anywhere. The singular motion through his hair, the rich fabric that presses heavy against his cheek, and the complete darkness in front of him that soothes over his eyelids all converge to aid his sleep, and he sinks down into the olive branch that it is from his own body.

But it doesn't last long, unfortunately.

What could be one hour or three hours later he is awoken by cracked whispering from the middle of camp, something bigger than Nott but smaller than Yasha hunched over and quietly picking at the embers of the fire. There had been a reluctance to use one so far in, which is completely fair, but they'd needed to eat, something rich that was cooked. It was either that, or salted meat with little else to go with it. Now, though, he wonders at their brave stupidity.

It's a hag, from what he can tell without moving and alerting her.

He's only distantly aware of the hags of Labenda Swamp, the special curse inflicted upon women who have angered the local coven. Curses are a theme, he notes wryly, and watches her spindly fingers dig through the ash for food. Her claws aren't as awful as the lycanthropes had been, but they aren’t as tame as Molly's either. Her lanky white hair covers her greasy face but he can still see the crooked, broken teeth set in her mouth, and God knows what she's got stashed away in her cloak. Why she isn't dead is anyone's guess, but she's certainly weak, from the limp and occasional muffled huff of pain she gives when she moves. Generally, her kind are hard to kill, with a resistance to damage that could make a seasoned soldier flinch. Not so much now.

He slowly brings one hand up from where it rests beside his body and flicks through the spells he's got memorized, but without his spell book he isn't going to be casting something big enough to kill her, not as weak and quiet as he is and must be. Offensive spells are only going to draw her ire to him, and for now she seems content to creep around them. It won't last. They are greedy and always hungry, hags. The only one she might pass on is Nott.

A gentle flash of movement in the woods beyond their low campfire light alerts him to another possible combatant. They are entirely silent, but the coloring is not able to blend in, nor the size.

Yasha.

She looks just as she had when they'd split up, albeit a tad confused when her gaze sweeps past them and meets his eyes, but her face hardens when he pointedly glances at the hag still distracted.

With Yasha here, and he really must wonder at the perfect timing, the creature can't get far.

He holds her gaze for a drawn out moment, rapidly switching through his available spells, then slowly nods, grim but certain. If there are other things alive out here, and there must be, now, they will all hear the battle that is going to take place, as short lived as it will hopefully be. He just prays the others won't be too angry with him for the abrupt awakening.

At his confirmation, Yasha stops the soft padding, and doesn't hesitate to draw her sword, the sharp sound it emits startling the hag backwards and into something close to vulnerable.

The barbarian goes in for the kill the moment the weakness becomes obvious, her sword slicing through the cloak and leaving a long wet wound open across the beasts side, not enough to kill her, but enough to seriously slow her down. Her scream of rage is enough to startle the rest into action and out of sleep, but he can't focus on that, can't take his attention away from the spell gathering in his palms.

The fire that licks up his fingers does not shoot from his hands, but cracks beneath her feet and shoots upwards, like a geyser opening up and burning every bit of flesh it can find, ravenous in a mindless sort of way that all elements tend to be.

Her agony is heavy on his tongue when he wets his lips and let's Molly drag him away from her palpable fury, the tiefling snarling when her eyes meet their huddled form, but her weakness and inattention costs her when Yasha closes back in to get at her face. Between Yasha's tireless pursuit, Caleb's outpouring of liquid fire and Caduceus’ sharp holy magic bearing down on her own spells, she doesn't last long.

She makes a single, last ditch effort to flee, but Molly is faster, swords drawn, and he spins, a dance that never grows old, so fast that she may never block nor counter and with a wet sort of noise, her head rolls to a standstill at the edge of the light, body collapsing where she had stood. He hadn't seen where Molly had even been aiming, but his breathing slows as the danger has passed and admiration replaces apprehension.

“Hags live in covens.” Molly notes, critically, the first to speak, nudging the corpse with his uncovered foot, then shudders when it almost seems to move on it's on, a strange jitter running through it. Caleb almost wants to snap at him to come back and away from the fucking moving corpse.

Breathing hard still, Yasha collapses into herself when she seats herself in front of the fire, dragging her sword into her lap to begin cleaning it of the sticky mess of innards. The fire spell has only just retreated, leaving cracks in the ground that Caduceus mindlessly heals and scorch marks that won't be going away anytime soon.

“She did. They aren't around anymore.” She replies with a shrug, and the caressing hand that runs down the length of the metal like one might stroke a lover tells him all he needs to know. Undoubtedly they thought to make her their next meal. They probably hadn't accounted for what she must be like when she's angry.

Only now does Nott pop her head up over Caduceus’ shoulder, from where he had presumably been hiding, not that he seems to notice the weight, or if he does, he isn't phased. Then again, he did mention siblings. Such bothering might be comforting.

“What the fuck was that?!”

Caleb snorts at that and drags his weary body to sit beside Yasha, accepting the flask she fishes out of the folds of her clothes and takes a swig of something elven that makes him hum appreciatively. Where she found it is anyone's guess but he isn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Hag. She's dead, obviously, liebling, you can get down now.”

But Nott only pointedly drags herself up onto Caduceus’ shoulder instead, legs swinging at the pleasant height she's achieved.

“No thanks. You lot have fun down there with the bugs and water!”

Gentle footsteps alert him to Molly approaching and falling all over Yasha’s lap dramatically, of which she bears stoically, only going so far as to move her blade so it rests on his stomach. It's clearly something he does often, and he feels a smile light up his face at the warmth of the interaction, passing the flask back to the barbarian when glanced at. Her eyes are just as knowing as everyone else's, but it doesn't spoil his good mood, even if he's a little rough handing it back.

It hurts his pride that she just looks amused by his attitude.

“Why were you following that thing?” Caduceus wonders, settling down in front of them across the fire while easily handling Nott from his shoulder to his lap like one might move a cat. She looks so startled that Caleb has to bite his tongue to keep from losing it.

If Yasha is surprised that they've taken in the strange firbolg, she doesn't bother showing it, only glances at the corpse with another look of frustration.

“I was hunting the God. They must have been tracking me, but they were weak and I was...not. She managed to get away, but not far. I wasn't letting her live to find me later. It's good that she led me to you.” It's a simple explanation, and he can't tell if there's anything deeper. It feels like too much of a coincidence, but hell, he'll take what he can get. She's road worn, now that he can see her up close, with cuts and dirt caking her legs, but not nearly as tired as they are. His shirt has been thoroughly ruined in the back, and Molly has foregone his jacket as well, looking half tempted to toss the shirt half the time. Caleb prays he doesn't. He can't really handle that right now.

“I don't suppose you got far enough to find him.” Molly sighs, stretching out his legs until they fall into Caleb's lap and he can idly run his fingers along his ankle. It nets him a pleased hum, but he doesn't care to meet the gazes he just knows are pinned on him again.

Yasha shakes her head and pats the tieflings stomach until he groans and slides off, allowing her move and sheathe the ridiculous weapon she's so damn fond of. At least he knows what to get her if he ever has to apologize. Assuming she hasn't run him through with it first.

Caduceus looks absolutely fascinated by it.

“There was...a field. A meadow, maybe. It didn't fit well with the area, but there were...a lot of spirits there. More than I can take on alone. He must be there.”

It's more than they've got, admittedly, but Nott's eyes narrow when she gazes at the barbarian in a way that's strangely hostile, or at the very least, extremely cautious.

“Do you go out and hunt Gods alone all the time?”

Yasha doesn't answer, and the lack of one makes the goblins hackles raise, but at his firm look, she holds her anger back. Just another problem to go onto the shelf for later. At this point they're falling over themselves for his attention. He's going to need a bigger fucking shelf.

The sky that he can actually see has lightened just a tad bit, so evidently his estimation of how much they've actually slept was absolute garbage. It'll be dawn soon, but he doesn't fancy fighting translucent ghosts when their glow is completely gone with the sun. It's with regret that he rises, even as Molly clings to his ankle and pouts. They need to take this opportunity, and now, otherwise it'll be gone before they can say “shit”. The faster it's solved, the faster they can go back and he can sink into a bath to get the blood off his body. It's beginning to make his clothes smell and he doesn't fancy being animal bait on the way back. If they even make it that far, anyway, because there's a good chance they'll die doing this.

“We should get a move on if we want to get there before he's finished doing whatever it is he's doing.” He mumbles, and the rest of them lazily rise to join him and pack up what little they've pulled out.

He really hopes this doesn't get them all killed.

~°~

The darkness of the shadows mixed with the night is almost entirely unbearable, and even he can not see through it. Molly and Yasha take the lead this time, mumbling quietly to each other in a language he can't understand that makes his body feel like he's facing a threat once more. It's not something he wants to feel with Molly, but they're hiding something, something big. He knows it, Nott must have figured it out at some point today, and Caduceus is either oblivious or uncaring of it, but he let's Nott use him as a buffer, and makes sure Caleb is at the back and away from the other two. It's sweet, but unnecessary. If they're hiding something dangerous, it's probably a bad idea to tip them off like this, but the only notice is when Molly glances back and frowns at the wizards distance. At least there isn't an insistence to be closer.

It really is just his luck to grow...feelings, for the only other person in the group as suspicious as himself.

“How far is this clearing?” Caduceus questions, hoisting Nott further up until she's back on her perch where she's obviously made herself at home. He wonders if this will be a habit now. She won't complain about having to wear shoes if so, so maybe it's not a bad deal at all.

Yasha doesn't glance back at his voice, just leads them off the path and into a thicket of bushes that cuts off abruptly like this part of the swamp was abruptly reshaped.

“It's right here.” She mutters, and Caleb has to swallow a gasp.

There aren't just a few spirits, there must be well over three hundred, because he can see more at the far end of the clearing, way off into the trees, doing something he can't make out but what is undoubtedly preparing for an actual fucking siege of the capital.

There are soldiers and civilians and orcs and elves and even children meandering around aimlessly, not speaking, just moving, as if in search of something lost, a body perhaps. Only a few seem to have one, and the ones that do are quiet and eerily still from where they stand playing watchdog for the rest of the souls, rotted bodies fresh from the places they fell. There are animal carcasses strewn about the field, so he supposes that answers one question, and makes his stomach protest violently, a gag building in his throat he only just manages to silence.

It doesn't matter, though, because the corpses whip around the face them the moment they step past the treeline, and every single soul comes to a standstill.

“Oh fuck.” Nott whispers, and Yasha's sword is drawn and raised just in time to deflect a corpse throwing itself at her with reckless abandon. The metal bites deep into the flesh, cleaving the undead in two, but not killing it properly. Uselessly it gapes at them from the ground, mouth opening and closing to reveal a missing tongue and eyes that have been plucked from the skull by some sort of scavenger bird.

The corpses shamble towards them as fast as they can go with torn ligaments and broken bones or missing limbs. They feel no pain and no fear. It's endlessly cliche, the evil entity summoning a hoarder of undead, but he can barely appreciate it when he has to cast spell after spell of fire wall to try and hold them back, but it isn't working. Really, it's just giving them more weapons to use against them now that they're on fire and willing to jump at them. Gods, there's a reason he's not a tactician. 

“Caduceus! Use your magic, whatever you've got!” He shouts over Yasha's battle cries and Molly's laughing, of which he will probably need to address eventually.

At this, Caduceus, though clearly stressed, smiles and closes his eyes, a single utterance leaving his lips as he does.

“Keep them busy.”

It's a bit of a tall order, really, because his magic is doing jack shit and it's all the only two melee fighters can do to keep them off him. Even so, one or two break through and find true on his skin, useless human fingernails turned into weapons. One twists his arm sharply, stopping him from doing anything, and the other goes for his eyes. He can hear Molly growl out something absolutely awful in Abyssal, but his mumbled spell strikes true, and the one in front of him croaks as it's impaled on a dozen different spikes of razor sharp ice. Another wrench and he cries out as the undead tries to seemingly rip his arm from the socket.

The pressure disappears with a shrieking, unholy scream that rises up around them as the Wildmother's fury finally unleashes from within Caduceus.

It's some sort of necromancy spell he isn't entirely familiar with, but he knows it targets undead specifically. With the added blessing from the Goddess, it must be more potent than anything he might hope to produce. If he squints, he thinks he might see a towering woman lay her hand on Caduceus’ shoulder, but it's gone in a blink, and he can't be sure if he even saw a thing at all.

Around them, the army dwindles into a small group from the trees, undead melting and bursting into Ash as holy light seems to fill them from the inside and spill out through their eyes and mouth. It would be agonizing on something living, and a reminds him strongly of the inky black smoke Tirich wielded like a sword that ate away at a person's insides and left them hollow. A wretched perversion of holy magic, of course. It's no wonder many might think Tirich an evil deity. He certainly isn't on the whiter spectrum of morality.

They've been corralled into the middle of the clearing and set upon at all sides, but he lets himself peek around Molly's solid and unrelenting form even as the tiefling tries to usher him back protectively.

They're facing the flickering spirits too far into the trees for the spell to reach them when the ground begins to change, and he turns just in time to watch ice erupt out of the ground like pillars of blue glass from behind them, taking strewn about bodies with them until they tower like the ancient trees themselves. The air itself feels like frostbite in his lungs and makes his veins seem to freeze. Layer after layer of ice skates along the ground, crashing uselessly into the tightened barrier around them. Now it is reinforced by the Wildmother's presence, her refusal to see her child cut down here like so many of her own once in history by this creature. He can feel her anger when he reaches out tentatively to touch it with his magic, but she is warm and kind and startlingly alive when she reaches back, gentle, a mother's hand cupping his face for just a second, then slipping away before Tirich takes notice. It is awe inspiring and new and lovely, and chases away the fear he might have felt when from out of the darkness an orc comes into view.

He rides an unnatural beast, a mix between a horse and some sort of lupine, it's entire body seemingly carved from obsidian. He is large and powerful and could crush them, all of them, with a single foot, but he feels calm. This must be what it's like to be Caduceus, he supposes, so sure of yourself with your Goddess (Guardian/Caretaker/Mother) filling every inch of you in a connection he has longed to have back. It is not the same, it is almost bad in the way that it makes him ache, but she is compassionate and understanding when she ghosts across his mind.

'You are not so alone, Dia Beag. He is with you. And I am sure he is not pleased with me right now.’ She whispers, her voice like the summer breeze, playful and mischievous at her small invasion. He can't begrudge her for it.

'How do we handle this?’ He asks her, before she can slip away, and there is a foreign stab of worry that jolts through him. He realizes it is a taste of her own emotions, though he has little doubt that she must hold so much back to keep him from feeling all of it. This is only a part of her, after all, and he would not survive all of it.

Her voice is sad when she replies with, 'You won't. You can't. Run.’

He doesn't think twice. He turns on his heel, just as Caduceus does, and runs.

The other two must follow, because Yasha quickly overtakes them, and Molly only slows once he is level with Caleb, something like exhilaration flashing across his face when their retreat registers and the Emperor, a mindless beast, he can now see, let's out a bellow that shakes the ground and trees they flee into.

He feels shockingly like prey as the Wildmother retreats from his mind and tries her best to clear the way for their escape, but there is nowhere to go, and he knows she is aware of this. The Emperor is a made predator and the battlefield is his hunting ground, like an avatar of The Hunt itself, a game Mother Nature must know far too well.

“Split up!” He shouts, because it will give them time, if he is the one solely pursued, knows with a bone deep certainty that this is a sacrifice of himself, and casts up a wall of the brightest flame he can manage as a barrier between himself and the rest of his companions. The hoof beats get closer, and he chances a firebolt at the hulking orc to gain his attention just as Nott catches on and screams at him for his plan. He can't see her through the fire, but he appreciates her grief all the same. They both know he isn't getting out of this alive, but that doesn't mean he'll make it easy.

With a surge of Mana, he splits the ground between them in half until fire spills out, scorching hot enough to make his skin tingle in warning. It's too much, he's drawing so much power that it threatens to spill into his soul and body, burning away his Mana, then energy, then life force. If he expels too much, it will kill him, but it's better to die by his own hand, ruining this God's plan, than it is to be cut down like cattle at slaughter underneath a butcher's blade. He won't be hunted and killed like prey. He is a predator in his own right. The Empire had made sure of that.

He uses more Mana to force the wind to carry him faster, even over the enraged, gruff voice behind him mumbling in Abyssal as it must go through the fire to reach him, and the trees slip by at a speed that makes his eyes hurt. Even still, he is pursued, a wolf hunting what it thinks is a rabbit. He feels more like a coyote, smaller but just as furious when backed into this corner. It won't change the outcome, but there's a comfort in it anyway.

The sky above him ripples again, and he laughs, something manic that catches on a sob as the Mana cuts off and he is forced to his knees in another clearing. It is the best place to see, to watch as Tirich fruitlessly seems to try and rouse himself.

“Don't bother.” He whispers into the night, “There's no point. Seeing you is enough for me. Will you take away my chance at a peaceful death? Let it end like this. Let me see you when I fall.”

Behind him, the Emperor steps past the trees, and he can hear them crack and break, crashing to the ground as he shoves them aside and seems to grow in size. Caleb must look so tiny and harmless where he sits, knees tucked under him, head tilted to the sky. Small and pathetic. What an ego the Divines have, what arrogance. It's almost enough to make him angry, but he can't muster up the energy as spell after spell is flung from his hand, lips moving to speak between a prayer and the interruption of a verbal spell. The onslaught will not hold him forever, but he wants this moment to last, just long enough to take it with him wherever he will go when he has drained himself entirely.

“Why must you always be so stubborn?”

The spells cut off abruptly as he whips around, fear squeezing at his heart at the voice, but still the God does not get past the threshold.

Dread curls in his stomach, but he doesn't think it's for the reason it should be there.

“Molly?”

The tiefling has slipped past the raging Divine, and stands before him, familiar and yet...different.

He holds himself like a royal, confident in every aspect of his body from his appearance to his control, he doesn't move to breathe, doesn't even seem to do so at all. His red pupils are ringed with a black iris.

It doesn't stop him from standing and collapsing into his chest, nor accepting the possessive, suffocating embrace, the press of lips to his hair, his forehead, his eyelids and the tip of his nose. The man is frantic for a reason he doesn't understand, instead of scared of what he's throwing away by being here, by following them. He doesn't want to watch Molly die.

Does he not deserve a peaceful end? Is he not worthy of some sliver of happiness?

“Why did you follow me?” He asks, and now that he's started, he can't shove a lid onto his sobbing. He knows he must look awful, eyes red and tears covering his face, grief etching across his features, but his brain is connecting pieces of a puzzle and shrugging off magic he didn't know was even inside of him, and he's coming closer and closer to a realization he so desperately doesn't want.

“It should have occurred to me that you would throw your life away.” Molly mutters bitterly, pressing their faces together too hard until it hurts, like he wants to crawl into Caleb's skin. Maybe he does. Maybe, Caleb would let him.

“Can you blame me?” He laughs, but it's just as acidic.

“I try so hard to keep you here and alive, and what do you do? You try to play the hero. I should punish you for it. I should do a lot of things, really.” The blood hunter almost says it to himself, but Caleb laughs anyway, cheeks flushing even as the world seems to slide away until it's just the two of them and he can't hear the Betrayer God screaming at Molly in Abyssal.

“What would you do, spank me?” He smiles, and Molly almost looks startled, but surely he's noticed the tension, and the lust?

“Are you...flirting with me?”

He laughs again, open and light and joyous, and the sky shivers again like it's going to break like glass and rain down upon them. He really hopes not. Maybe he won't die before he gets anywhere past friendship with Molly.

“You haven't noticed?”

“I...no. No, I hadn't.”

It figures. Caleb sniffs through another sob that doesn't seem to want to go away and meets the widened, wondering eyes of this beautiful man he isn't so sure he knows. They've changed, but he doesn't want to waste time asking why. They don't have much time to do anything at all, do they? They'll both die soon, once whatever holds the God back breaks.

With a gentle exhale, he leans in, and slots their lips together in a wet, too much too soon kiss, but he can't bring himself to care that it skips past chaste and straight into foreplay.

His body feels like he's been set on fire with too much sensory input, and he feels a thousand different things all at once. He feels the jolt from Mollymauk like he's just realized this is something that can actually happen, the kneejerk kiss back, the tongue that slips into his mouth and tangles with his own as they're both lost in the haze of want/need/adoration, the embrace that crushes him close and presses every piece of on display skin against his own until his chest rumbles with a groan at the friction Molly's leg provides him.

It's cut off with a gasp as the tiefling tears himself away, going only so far as to make it where their lips aren't connected, but he looks...confused.

“You really never noticed?” He asks, savoring the taste lingering on his lips that has Molly's pupils expanding when he sees, then flicking away for composure.

“You...you wouldn't if you knew. We can't want this, not...like this.” He whispers, and Caleb...

Caleb begins to laugh.

No, no, he shouldn't want this. It doesn't mean shit, now. It's too late. He's already fallen, has already yearned for Molly in a way he has never wanted another.

It feels like his entire world is shattering before him as that fucking magic disappears entirely and he is forced to see the bigger picture. Ignorance had been a kindness.

“You never really thought any of this through, did you Tirich?” He asks, and Tirich-Molly...Tirich gives a full body flinch, but he doesn't end it there. “Did you even entertain the thought of how I'd react to you? Did you care about any of my grief? When you saw me breakdown in that alley and you used your magic to make me never realize who you are, did you care about anything other than the opportunity?”

“Yes, Gods, how could you accuse me of not caring?! Look at the picture, Caleb! I'm trying! I...I'm trying. I can't do what I used to be able to do. I'm human, my dearest, or I will be. I've been alive for two years searching for you, and I've only gotten weaker. It took me so long to be strong enough to find a vessel, and I'll never be able to apologize for it enough. Gods, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm doing it this way. I can make it better, I can fix this! I just...I just need a little more time. I just need you to forget for a little longer.”

He shoves his God away at that, fear racing through his body at the thought, no, gods, he can't forget again. He can't have this taken from him.

“Don't! Don't, Tirich, please, don't take this away. Let me remember, let me help you!”

But Tirich isn't listening. It isn't a surprise. He is an Ancient, the First Of His Kind, and he has never fully understood the motivations of a person. How confused he must be, feeling human things like fear and desire. How terrified he must have been to discover pain. Even through the terror, he feels himself want to reach out, but he has to...he has to stay away! He has to talk him down, but he knows it's futile. He will be forced to forget, and only allowed to remember when Tirich has fixed that which is not yet broken.

He slides away from anger and denial into acceptance, and let's Tirich pull him into his arms once more. Just earlier it had been pleasant and something he had wanted to melt in, why can't they go back to that? But then, they will be, won't they? These memories will be plucked from his head selectively, and he'll have no input at all.

“Don't take the kiss from me.” He mumbles into Tirich's collar, and the shuddering laugh he gets back is shaken. He wonders if Tirich has ever desired another human being like this before, if this is just as new to him as it is to Caleb.

“We might do something worse if I don't.” It is a gentle reminder, but he just tiredly leans up and licks lazily into Tirich's mouth again, swallowing the surprise all at once, taking as much of that taste and hunger as he can, then pulling back before it can be turned into something more.

“Ask me if I care.” He says, but saying no would be a lie, and they both know it. Falling for a strange but charming man set on his happiness is one thing. Finding out that man is the once-dead God who was his best friend his entire childhood is...an entirely different subject altogether. It will take time, and he won't even be given it. He won't remember.

He isn't so sure this particular problem is going to fit on a shelf, actually.

Tirich smiles, a little sadly, at that.

“I'm sorry.” He says, but Caleb isn't so sure it matters anymore.

Behind them, the Strife Emperor breaks through, finally, and charges at them, his rage palpable in the air, just as Caleb closes his eyes and accepts the kiss pressed against his forehead, and the magic right along with it.

Above them, the sky gives a final shudder, a single blazing red eye opens, and the great Leviathan awakens for the first time in millennia.

Caleb will never see what horrid creature is revealed above them, will not see the true face of the God he has given his life to, will not gaze upon the monster that has a Betrayer God scream in complete and utter agony. He can hear thousands of vulture's cry as they're released from the gaping wound in their reality, the distant howls of coyotes and wretched creatures torn from the depths of space humans are never supposed to find through the tear above them, the gaping maw of the man he finds himself burrowing against even as the world around them descends into chaos at the awakening of something older than time.

It all happens in a matter of seconds, but he isn't aware enough to see it.

And then, with a final, gentle pluck of magic, a warm caress against his mind, he knows nothing at all, and falls into the safety of the beast before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yasha: what are your qualifications for messing with someone's memories?  
> Molly: I watched the Winter Soldier once
> 
> This is a reminder that Molly is a Primordial creature who has never had to take care of a person like this, who has never felt these things and who has no idea what it is like to have an equal versus a follower. He Fucked Up, but he'll get better. That being said I'm going to kick him in the teeth.
> 
> This was. A nightmare to get out. Genuinely. My hand hurts from writing and I barely got any sleep trying to finish this. It was supposed to be 12k idk where the rest came from.
> 
> I would! REALLY! Appreciate y'alls thoughts because this chapter Scares Me and I want input so Do Comment my lovelies, while I go nurse my broken hand. See you when I see you!

**Author's Note:**

> You can contact me in DMS on my instagram @mattnotmatthias or my twitter @daddykeehl for any questions or just to chat!


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